


Infractus

by glassmotion



Category: HIM (Band), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Deal with a Devil, Demonic Possession, Drugs, Exorcisms, F/M, Fear, M/M, Psychological Torture, Religious Conflict, Religious Discussion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Violence, god is a woman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:15:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28506570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassmotion/pseuds/glassmotion
Summary: Frank is a tattoo artist who wishes he could have a simple life, but he's always had a talent for seeing and feeling the ugliness of the world. It isn't until his path crosses Gerard's - who claims to be an... exorcist? - that he realizes that the forces chasing him might have a name and a face as pretty as the Devil's.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 62
Kudos: 45





	1. he wants you alive

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, every trigger warning that would apply to a devil/exorcist movie. This story messes with religion so if that's a problem for you, don't. 
> 
> This was originally written in the 2000s in my mother tongue. Some changes from the original text have been made. I don't have a beta for English. 
> 
> Oh, and: Ville Valo as Lucifer.

He fell. Darkness swallowed him whole, and he couldn’t see a thing. All he could feel was falling; loose, anchorless, helpless falling. Panic grew sticky on his insides; fear of the pain he knew was coming. He fell and he screamed, convulsing into the terrifying nothingness. 

He was trapped. He had no arms. He knew they were coming to get him. He could hear their voices, whispering dreadful things, talking about all of the disgusting things they had planned for him, happily laughing with their task. And he couldn’t fight back. 

The voices became closer, louder, faster, and he couldn’t understand their words, his vision a blur, his arms tied back, not knowing where he was. _Shut up,_ he thought, but they just spoke louder and meaner. He was helpless. He was hopeless. 

Biting on his bleeding lips, he felt his throat too dry to ask for help, and the suffocating air stank of sulfur. He closed his eyes and mentally begged for someone, something, _anything_ to end his agony. 

Eyes made of flames crossed his sight somewhere in the darkness, followed by the unmistakable sound. A human-faced serpent of fire agitated its tail and threatened to come closer. The boy closed his eyes, waiting for the kill, for the teeth to rip him apart and bleed him to the death. 

Nothing happened. He risked a quick peek and regretted instantly. The reptile pounced, mouth open and teeth bare. 

He screamed when the pain hit him. Or at least he thought that he did; he couldn’t tell for sure. His neck was ripped open and he closed his eyes. His small body fell to the floor, strengthless, and his skin bled when it hit some of the nasty spiky vines that grew from that plagued soil. He drowned in pain and drifted off. 

And then he came back to himself in a halt. He was in a room with no walls, the air thicker than where he previously was. There was a man. An unnaturally huge man, and he held a child in his filthy hand. The infant bled, her innocent skin violated - all of her was violated. And the man touched her, dragging his grimy fingertips up and down her thigh, the most foul expression on his disgraceful face - and his bright, bright eyes, made of fire, always made of fire. 

He asked for him to stop - _it’s a child, for God’s sake!_ , he shouted, trying desperately to get up. Fetters held his braised ankles to the ground, stopping him from lurching towards the monster. But the monster laughed loud and strong, as he took the child he held and turned her around like a doll, rubbing her tainted face against the floor. He pulled her hair back, smiling at the sight of such pure hair tangled around his fingers. 

_It’s a child, for God’s sake!_ \- He shouted once more, struggling against his restraints. Even though his voice was weak and shaky, the monster stopped for a moment and looked at him in the eye. 

“God ain’t here right now, Iero.”

Rage flooded through Frank. He roared and struggled, fought his hardest against his fetters, but suddenly he was falling once more. And then he woke up, his face smashed against the brisk carpet of his bedroom. 

It took him a couple seconds to realize what had just happened. His throat was tight shut and he couldn’t breathe, panic still flooding his lungs and holding him still. His ankles burned. He trembled, silently, realizing it had been just another one of his nightmares. 

Frank’s chest contracted and he started hyperventilating, the knot on his throat rising up to his face, bringing it to a tight frown that exploded into warm tears. He hugged his own knees and cried, once again, until he was numb. 

‡

He looked down at the frail limbs twisting on the bed. His craving for a cigarette was making his own fingers twitch, and he combed them through his dark hair. This was taking too long - but it should end soon. He could tell. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself off the dresser against which he had been leaning while he caught his breath, and paced slowly towards the bed.

A low growl escaped from the mouth of the girl he had tied up to the bed. It wasn’t her voice, though. “Are you scared?” The thing said, a disgusting smile towards Gerard, who eyed the thick dark drops of blood trickling down the girl’s neck, where the demon had made her scratch herself raw. 

His reply was a soft shake of his head. He hopped onto the bed, his filthy boots on either side of her hips, the mud on them making the blood stained sheets even filthier. The girl tried to raise her tied hands in his direction, but they smashed down her own ears when the man above her started speaking. “ _Crux sacra sit mihi lux”,_ he said as he raised his own hand, a large silver cross in it, and the girl started stirring. “Who’s scared now, hotshot?”

The girl's eyes - sunk deep in her skull, red-rimmed and flaming - stung Gerard’s as the demon behind them started boiling. It took advantage of the exorcist’s pause to catch him unguarded, and she hit him on the face, fist closed, with supernatural speed and strength as she ripped the bindings tying her down. The man stumbled and held onto her arm, tasting copper as the demon’s laughter echoed through the mess of a room, its metallic tones clinging disgustingly to his ears. 

Gerard flung down and knelt on top of her as he pushed the cross flat and hard against the girl’s chest. A _fzzzz_ sound tangled with the demon’s screams, the rotten stench of charring flesh coming out of the girl’s skin as it smoked up in its burning. “Are you getting out now?” Gerard said above the wailing, his teeth gritted with the strength he was using to keep her down. “I ain't got all day, you asshole trainee fuckface piece of _shit_.” He felt the room get hotter, the demon’s wails turning into angry growls, the girl’s other hand ripping its bindings and coming to try and twist Gerard’s fist away from her chest. The girl’s mother started crying louder from where she stood, in the corner of the room, a hand clasped so tight to her mouth she would sure leave bruises on her own face. Gerard sighed. “I order you to leave, now.”

The girl’s jaw clicked and her eyes turned up, flickering, her mouth hanging open. Gerard felt a tidal shiver shake him down when the demon screamed louder than it’d done before, so loud the windows burst, and the second he wavered his grip on the cross, the demon hit him hard on the face again. This time, Gerard spat out some blood, hearing the demon’s laughter shaking the girl’s chest beneath him.

“You’ve been in a great mood lately,” he observed, “what are you up to, uh?” He didn’t wait for an answer though, and shoved the crucifix up higher, its point pressed against the girl’s chin. Gerard leaned forward, despite the hideous stench that came out of her mouth. “Tell your shithead of a boss I said hello. _Non draco sit mihi dux.”_

The demon howled and cursed in a thousand languages, hitting Gerard’s face with the girls fists and nails, but the exorcist kept as steady as possible and continued his prayer. He hoped the girl wouldn’t get too many scars from this. She was a pretty little thing, a child, maybe fifteen years old, a whole life ahead of her - if she survived this. Some people didn’t. Mikey didn’t. “ _Vade Retro Satana”_ , he continued, “ _Nunquam suade mihi vana._ ”

A whimper and a soft cry interrupted the demon’s noises for a second, and a blush danced on the girl’s face. She was still there, trying to come back. Gerard was going to make sure that she did. 

“You are _nothing!_ ” the demon shouted, hitting the man’s face as hard as he could. “You are filth, Gerard Way, you are a pawn and you are scum, and we will _find you_.”

“Send me chocolates,” Gerard said, trying to escape the girl’s reach before he lost another tooth. He reached for a vial in his jacket pocket and thumbed it open, getting it ready to spray it on the girl as he spoke. “Now fuck off, for God’s sake. _Sunt mala quae libas, ipse venena bibas. Vade Retro Satana. Vade Retro Satana. Vade Retro Satana.”_

The howling that followed vibrated in heat, and the stench of sulfur filled the room in waves of rot that fought to remain. Gerard kept his grip on the crucifix, his thighs burning with the effort of keeping the girl down. He sprinkled her with Holy Water and repeated his command over and over, his voice loud and firm, until the girl’s body went rigid and then limp. Air flew back into the room from the broken windows, sounds of the street and sirens filtering through. Color crawled back into the girl’s cheeks. The gritty, greenish sores on her skin faded, and she sunk back into her pillow in an almost peaceful state. 

Gerard sighed audibly. He put his instruments back into his pockets and climbed off the bed. His knees were trembling and exhausted. His face hurt so much he almost couldn’t feel it anymore. 

“Is she…” the girl’s mother asked from where she was crouching, a plastic rosary held tight in her hands. Her eyes were huge and hopeful, and he thought of religious paintings. 

“Yes,” he said, his hands pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his worn jeans. “Yes, ma’am, she should be fine now.”

The woman threw herself in the direction of her daughter’s bed, and Gerard gave her some privacy as he walked towards the window, lighting up a cigarette. He hunched forward and smoked in silence. His lips stained the tip of his fag red from his bloody mouth, and when he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, it came out just as red. His hands and wrists were covered in deep scratches and his side felt like he got stabbed, and he wondered idly if he’d gotten another broken rib. He spat more blood down onto the street. 

“Son?” he heard the woman say, and he flicked away his smoke before turning back around into the room. She then hugged him, surprisingly strong arms holding him tight, and it made him miss his own mother. Gerard patted her shoulder, trying not to wince as his ribs protested. “You saved her,” the lady said, “You saved my little girl. I, how -” she released him, taking one of his hands between hers, “how can I repay you? I don’t - I told you, I don’t have much, I haven’t-”

“Ma’am,” he said, “Can I use your facilities?”  
  


She blinked and nodded, then leading him down the corridor and into the bathroom, mumbling about fees, God and angels. When she scrambled back to her daughter’s room, Gerard closed the door and breathed in deeply, raising his eyes to his reflection on a small rusty mirror. 

He looked like death. His hair was sticking to the side of his head, damp with sweat and blood. His face was swollen, bruised and bleeding. His tooth was chipped. His eyes looked sad. 

Gerard hated it. He hated his life. He hated himself. 

He pretended not to, most of the time. He didn’t even really think about it much, he was so busy. Everyday his structure was cracked, more and more, but despite being really close to crumbling for good, he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. His life was nothing but darkness and he didn’t have the strength to turn on a light anymore. There was no one else to help him do it, and he knew there never would be. He would be left there until he died. The tragedy was that he didn’t. 

Gerard took a piss and flushed before he washed his hands, face and hair on the sink. He tried to comb his hair back with his fingers and smoothe down his clothes, using some toilet paper to try and clean the part where there was so much blood it actually showed its red even on black fabric. When he looked back into the mirror, he realized he was crying. He wiped his face on the towel one more time before tilting up his chin and getting out of the bathroom. 

He found the mistress in the kitchen, where she’d poured him a bowl of soup, and though he didn’t have much of an appetite, he knew he should eat. He took a seat and broke some bread to tip into the soup, and after his first bite he discovered he was actually starving. Her cooking was good and his meal was rich, flavors and smells nourishing him as much as the sustenance. While he ate, he gave her instructions on what to expect from her daughter in the following days and how to nurse her back into health. 

“I don’t know why this happened to her,” the woman said, her voice tired. “She’s such a lovely girl, my Sarah. A pure, Christian heart…” 

And Gerard almost opened his mouth to tell her that yes, he definitely believed her, she could’ve been an angel. Pretty much everyone they took were the same: their hearts so good and pure, their faith so strong, evil could feast in destroying them for weeks, maybe months. Believing in God was basically a green light to getting possessed. 

“Well,” Gerard said after brief consideration, “those things don’t respect anyone, Mrs. Holt. Not even those who do God’s honest work, like Sarah.”

He tried not to flinch at his own bullshit, but it seemed to be enough for the woman, who stood up and started handling pans and pots around the kitchen. She talked while Gerard ate, and said to him that even though she had no money, she still wasn’t out of food, and she should be able to get her pension running again once Sarah was feeling better, and he was welcome to take every meal in it for the rest of his life. 

He felt more grateful than what he led on in his brief “That would be nice, thank you.” 

Gerard was holding a bag full of tupperware when he made his way out, and they were by the door when a faint “ _Mama_?” came from Sarah’s room. The mother bolted her way to her daughter and Gerard closed the door behind him with a small, sad click.

‡

Gerard held a bag of frozen peas against his left cheek as he walked past closing shops on the street. He wished for a drink or ten, but he couldn’t afford anything. He could only imagine the sting of some whisky on his torn lips, the burn down his throat and the warming sensation making his limbs looser. He looked around, thinking about maybe stealing some from a convenience store, but gave up. He was too exhausted. 

The thought of money brought his mind to things he needed to buy. He was low on night fire and his glass vials kept breaking during sessions. He needed to go to Brian’s, but first he needed some money. He wished next time someone wonderful and nice got possessed by a murderous demon from hell, they could actually pay him in something other than gratitude and cookies. 

He blushed then, deeply ashamed of that thought, and cursed himself for being such a monumental prick. 

His green eyes scanned the dark streets as he walked. It was a chilly fall night, the wind turning the drizzle into sharp blades coming from every direction, but those were actually a bit helpful in the numbing of Gerard’s face and body. 

He kept up his quick pace, dodging people who offered him things - drugs, sex, dark promises of pleasure like no other. Those streets and alleys kept secrets and sold sins, but Gerard had learned to observe the darkness without stepping into it, and those things no longer caught his attention. He kept his head low and made his way to his decrepit condo, getting into the building right before thunder roared and turned the drizzle into a storm. “Next time, asshole,” he mumbled, looking up at the sky before stepping inside. 

He climbed up the stairs under flickering lights, water dripping from the ceiling here and there, and got to his door. It looked fragile, rotten - and it was, really. But that didn’t worry him much. That part of town had very little cases of breaking and enterings; it was, after all, rude to steal from your own part of town. Besides, anyone who got into Gerard’s place would probably feel sorry for him, with his hand-me-down furniture and his old ass television set, so those things really didn’t bother him at all. 

What Gerard did fear was something else entirely. Something that didn’t really respect physical boundaries like doors or walls, and that was why Gerard’s locks were prayers written in sharpies tampered with holy water all over his door frames. His enemies could not cross those boundaries and inside his walls, weak and moldy as they were, he was safe. 

A needy whine brought Gerard’s attention to the present, and he smiled as a furry ball rubbed against his shin. He dropped his things by the door, toed off his boots and undressed, throwing the filthy, bloody clothes onto a corner. Down to his underwear, he caught a glimpse of the bruises that littered his pale body, but paid them no mind. He’d deal with it later. 

Bending down he picked up his cat, belly up, and held him close as he walked towards the bedroom. Vorhees allowed himself to be cuddled and nosed, meowing softly in between purrs. He stared up to his tutor with eyes as wide and green as his, and licked his upturned nose before blinking slowly. Gerard buried his face on the cat’s fur and inhaled deeply, like it nourished him, before sitting on his bed. 

The mattress yelped a rusty little noise when Gerard laid down, the cat still on his chest, and sighed. He closed his eyes and finally allowed himself to feel and catalogue everywhere in his body that hurt. He lapped at a tooth with his tongue, and decided it wasn’t loose, despite the way it hurt. His rib probably wasn’t broken; he could tell it hurt a lot less than the two times he indeed had one broken. All in all, even though everything hurt so much he wanted to cry, he wasn’t that bad. Ice, painkillers and time should do the trick. 

As he rubbed idly behind Vorhees’ ear, he let his mind wander, prompted by the sadness that had been creeping up his guts all day long. The pain that bothered him the most wasn’t physical. It was the sorrow that felt like a cramp, twisting on his insides and pulling him down. It made him restless but also unable to move, like he was trapped in his own limbs. It made him feel like turning inside out, like ripping at the seams and bursting into nothingness. It felt like a punch to the gut, a hangover and a sad song. In the worst days, Gerard’s arms tingled with an overwhelming need to hold someone close, a tidal loneliness so grand he felt small, irrelevant and unloved. This was one of those days. Gerard held his cat closer, and though Vorhees whined in complaint, he didn’t try to escape his grip.

He couldn’t remember what was the last time he sat on his couch and talked to someone whose company he enjoyed. His mind designed scenarios, the vague features of an unknown lover hovering over his thoughts, the smell of someone else’s skin, the sound of their shuddering breaths after being tangled and moving. He could no longer conjure the feeling of having lips over his own, or fingers entangled in his hair. He dreamed of intimacy and care. 

He turned to his side on the bed, and his cat jumped away from him. Gerard cried silently, feeling small and hollow. 

‡

The buzz of the needle filled the room and the young man lying down failed to hold back a whimper. Frank mumbled something about needing him to hang on just a little bit more, they were almost there. He dipped his instruments in ink once more and got back to working, quick strokes broadening the shading, his other hand coming up often to wipe at the skin to get a better look at the results. It only took him another few minutes before he was done. Frank cleaned up his client and looked at the beautiful image of a large crucifix, trapping a Lord and Saviour Frank did not believe in. 

He protected the area and chatted away with the client, who babbled incessantly about how amazing his work was and how grateful he was to be able to schedule a time with him. Frank’s smile didn’t reach his eyes as he thanked the man and stepped outside. His back hurt, his neck was a wreck and his fingers were numb. He lit up a cigarette and smoked quietly, leaning against the wall of the shop and flexing his fingers. The joy of the first drag made him relax a bit and he slumped against the stone, but his wellness didn’t last long. 

Frank hated being around people, and the reason for that was because he could _feel_ them. He felt their presence in a form of waves - of thoughts, feelings or nature; he wasn’t sure. He heard thoughts, intentions and gestures. He could taste it in the air when someone was planning on revenge or going over nasty deeds. He could feel malice drench his bones and hatred drown his lungs. He could tell which one were pencil pushers with a nasty browser history and which ones had actually acted on their disgraceful proclivities. Frank felt every straw of ugliness that surrounded him, and he shuddered after a couple minutes, nausea hitting him badly before he stepped inside. 

He looked at the stencil of the tattoo he had just made, and wondered where the fuck was God in all of this shitshow he called his Work.

Frank felt ill. He had had a long week, his nightmares getting worse - everything had been getting worse, even though he’d thought he had already reached the peak of shitness. He collected his week’s payment and said goodbye, planning on heading to the one place he managed to escape his life for a little bit. 

It wasn’t ideal, he knew it, but it was all he could do: go to a club with music so loud and drugs so abundant, he'd get so out of his mind he wouldn’t hear anyone else’s. 

But even as he walked home quickly for a change of clothes, he knew, deep down, it was useless. He’d have silence for a few hours - well, ‘ _silence_ ’ - only to wake up with a nasty hangover and everything would be back. The agony, the screaming, the never-ending fear of everything. 

Frank took a deep breath and kept walking. Friday night was already on. He hated Fridays. He hated every day. 

‡

He twirled around, his head dizzy from the alcohol and the pill. Pills? He didn’t remember. His hair was wet and sticking to his face, eyes smudged with cheap makeup. His shirt had holes in it, but it worked perfectly in his favour, showing tiny bits of tattooed, glistening skin. His pants were tight and his boots were heavy, and he closed his eyes while his hips followed the beat. 

He felt hands grabbing for his body, mouths trying to find his own. Sometimes he let them. Sometimes he shoved them away. Nothing ever lasted, anyway. Bit he didn’t mind. The loud noise turned into a kind of silence, and it was the only moment of peace he ever got - when he slept, the nightmares made it even worse than when he was awake. So Frank drank, used and danced. 

Suddenly feeling his throat parched, he opened his eyes and made his way to the bar. He ordered a beer and gulped it down, and his stomach churned, but he didn’t care he’d throw up soon. He did it often enough anyway. 

He then went to the outside of the club for a cigarette, the remains of his beer still clutched in his hand. Frank decided to take a few extra steps onto the alley so he could piss, and he did, his head throbbing and his dick wet - was it raining?, - before tucking up and falling back against the filthy wall. He finished his beer and threw the bottle away with a loud crash before fishing for his pack of cigarettes. He was trying to light it up - it was, indeed, raining - when something hit his hand and sent his lighter several feet away. 

A rotten mouth with yellow, crooked and chipped teeth grinned at him. A snake came from a gap between them, worms falling out. “Hello, Frank,” the monster growled, stepping closer. 

And suddenly Frank no longer felt high or drunk, he was completely and unequivocally trapped to that very moment and place. The revolting thing emanated the strongest, hardest waves of evil Frank had ever felt. His knees failed him and he slid down the wall in complete terror, his face drained pale and tears rolling down his face instantly. He was hopeless and when Evil touched him, he screamed in pain. 

His cry made the creature happy and it held Frank’s arms, pulling him up like he was a rag doll. It laughed loud and hard against his face, its breath a fetid cloud. The more Frank tried to protest, the harder he was gripped, and the monster rubbed him against the wall, beaming with each yelp. It lifted one huge nasty hand to hold Frank’s jaw, and something invisible shot the boy’s eyes open, forcing him to face his abuser up close, his heart thumping so fast his blood made his ears ring. 

“Are you afraid of dying?” The creature asked, its mouth flooding with worms, its voice metallic as if it held a thousand voices trapped within it. Frank tried to struggle, but it was helpless, and his vision blurred deeper in his panic. The monster laughed, delighted, pressing him harder, knocking the breath out of him. “Don’t you worry, boy. He wants you alive.”

The creature knocked him against the wall once, twice, and he lost conscience. 

When he woke, bile rose fast and he vomited on himself. He coughed and scrambled around, trying to get to his feet, rain pouring hard on him. “Frank?” Came a softer voice, stepping closer. “Holy shit, dude, can you hear me?” Hands helped him stand up. He couldn’t look up or move, still paralyzed by fear. “What did you take? Frank? You need a hosp-- _dude!”_

Frank freed himself of his friend’s grip and walked away - slowly, at first, but faster as he went, until he was running under the storm. Nasty thoughts and feelings reached him from the people he crossed, and he ran faster, as if he could escape them. He ran until his lungs burnt and his legs gave up, and he stumbled onto a corner, crouching by a store window with neon signs that flickered bright in the dark night. Frank looked up at the clouds, lightning crisscrossing between them. “Why the _fuck”_ he said bitterly, his throat sour with remnants of vomit, “won’t you help me?” 

No one answered. No one ever did. 

Frank caught his breath and stood up to walk the last few blocks home. 

From across the street, in the shadows of a narrow alley, a tall man watched him with a sly smile on his lips. 


	2. give me a sign

Brian was still talking. Gerard had tuned out for a while, using his years of practice into knowing when to snap his attention back, which finally happened when Brian said, “So, what do you need? I don’t have holy water, the priest at St James caught me last week and warned everyone, and I’ve been doomed to Hell like, fourteen times over.”

“That’s fine,” Gerard shrugged, his face still quite hurt from earlier that day. “I need night fire. Have you got anything else that might be interesting?”

“Well I just got some stakes, but nothing you’d like,” he said, pushing a box to the end of his neatly arranged shelf. “Ehm, a bunch of Xanax, but demons are far from depressed, from what you told me… oh books. Oh, here, dude, check this out.”

He handed Gerard a worn, old book, hardcover but taped all over. “Is this…?”

“Cyprian Grimoire, handwritten original,” Brian beamed. “Well, a handwritten copy, anyway. Unpublished shit. Kinda creepy,” he wondered out loud, “even in context.”

“This is awesome,” Gerard said, carefully flipping through the pages, “and probably worth more than I ever made in my lifetime, so I’ll read it and get it back to you in--” - He stopped when frantic knocking on the door startled them. Gerard took two long steps closer to Brian and whispered, “Who the fuck, Brian.”

“I do have other clients, you know?” He rolled his eyes. “Clients that pay me with money, by the way. And you can keep the damn book. Now please excuse me a minute?”

“Brian!” Came a shout from the door, along with more knocking. “I can hear you, asshole, please open the door, I won’t take long.”

“Lovely chap,” said Gerard, his brows raised, and he walked further into the apartment, making himself scarce. He hid in Brian’s room and closed the door, leaving only a small gap so he could spy on whatever was happening.

Brian opened the door and the guy that came in was as short as he was, which was saying a lot. He was soaking wet from rain, his hair dripping, and he wore nothing over the shirt that clung to his body. He was shaking hard, his lips going blue under a lip ring. “Hey,” he said, his voice now small, “I need some.”

“Frank,” Brian said after a deep breath. “You better have a great god damn excuse walk in here in those filthy fucking boots,” he eyed the guy’s shoes on his pristine floorboards, “Also what the fuck. What happened?”

“I just need it, ok?” The guy said, his head down. He looked pained, and not fidgety like most addicts - just… anxious. Scared. “Look, I’m just - it’s getting like, I don’t even know. I can’t think. Really weird shit, Brian, and it fucking hurts, and they won’t leave me alone, so I need it. I’ll pay your urgency fees or whatever, just get me  _ something. _ ”

“No, hey -  _ hey _ ,” Brian touched the boy’s shoulder, his voice going paternal - it often did, when necessary. “Frank. Talk to me, man. What happened?”

They guy took a deep breath, his eyes finally meeting Brian’s. “They’re back. I mean, they never really left, but - they’re worse, Brian, so much worse. And they touch me, now. Like… they really exist, like physically, and they touch me, and it hurts like fuck, and then they’re gone again.” He held his own body tight, clearly freezing. “What I’ve been seeing, it’s just… I don’t know, man. It’s like the Devil is out to get me.”

Brian blinked once, twice, and then he pulled Frank into a hug. Gerard’s ears were completely perked up by then, and he held his breath so he could hear Brian’s words, muffled against the guy’s damp hair. “Frankie,” he said, his hand tracing soothing patterns on his back. “Did someone hurt you?”

“Yes,” he answered, sniffing. “And they won’t stop. I don’t know how I know it, I just do. They want me. I can’t take it anymore.” He sniffed one last time before releasing himself from Brian’s grip to shove some money into his hand. “Here, just. Whatever works.”

Gerard could see Brian’s mind working, so clearly he could almost hear cogs grinding hard as he tried to decide what to do. Which was alarming, really. Brain usually knew exactly what to do whenever faced with any kind of problem they could possibly get themselves into. But this… this was clearly something else entirely. Gerard felt a nasty shiver and put his ear to the door. 

“Look,” Brain finally said, hesitant. “I’m only gonna give it to you so you won’t go somewhere else and take God knows what, but Frankie. You gotta look into that. This is getting out of hand.”

Frank shrugged, still shaking from the cold. “Whatever, man. Just get me my money’s worth,” he spat, clearly trying to recover from how vulnerable he had just been. He risked a sideways glance at Brian, who sighed and accepted his shit behaviour. 

“Fine,” he gave in, pocketing the money, “wait here a second.”

Brian walked swiftly into his apartment and the room Gerard was in, and closed the door behind him with an exasperated look on his face. “This kid, man,” he mumbled, walking towards his closet. 

“What about him?” Gerard followed up close, whispering very enthusiastically. “Who’s that, Brian? What does he see? What are you giving him man, he’s gonna off himself.”

“No he won’t,” Brain said, matter-of-factly. “He’s terrified of dying, now please back off, you’re in my way. No, actually, can you reach that for me? There.”

Gerard handed him a huge square tin. “You know who he sounds like, right?”

Brian stopped halfway through a plastic bag he was fumbling with. He gave Gerard a serious, lugubrious glance. “Nah.” He grabbed a small baggie and shoved the rest back into a shelf. “He’d be dead by now.”

Before Brian reached the door, Gerard grabbed him by the arm and turned him around. “Wait,” he said, and took off his coat. “Give him this. He’ll freeze to death before he can get high on those.”

Squinting, Brian looked up at him with his most suspicious face. “You’re not usually nice, Gerard,” he wondered out loud, and sniffed the coat. “Oh, wow. Now I get it. This stinks.”

“The fuck it does!” Gerard whispered back angrily, a hand on his waist in offense, but the other man just opened the door and left, so he just resumed his spying and watched Frank reach for the baggie. 

“You’ll take two of these before bed, Frankie, that’s it,” he held out a finger, “no more. No booze. And if you feel anything too off, call me. Seriously, fucking call me.”

“Thank you,” Frank put the baggie in the pocket of his damp jeans. “I will.”

“And please take a shower before bed, keep yourself warm. And put this on,” he handed Gerard’s coat, “you can bring it back later, no rush.”

Frank didn’t even argue. He took the coat and quickly put it on, seeming actually happy to be getting it. He was definitely a bit too small for it, but Gerard liked how it looked on him. He watched Frank bring the lapel into his face and take a deep breath once, smelling the fabric, and then he mumbled a quick thank you before leaving the apartment, a wet trail in his wake. 

‡

Frank walked fairly slowly when he left Brian’s place. He was suddenly feeling drowsy, and a lot more peaceful than he had before. He shoved his hands deeper into the coat’s pockets - it smelled so  _ good _ , like dessert or something, and the warmth so cozy, and it just felt so  _ safe _ , like a cocoon. He hadn’t even taken the pills yet, but still, it was like a drug. A lovely, numbing, relaxing, deafening, vanilla-scented drug. 

What he didn’t know was that he was being followed. Gerard walked a few feet behind him, careful not to be too noisy with his boots or splash any puddles. The quiet chase lasted for quite a few blocks before Gerard felt a bit more at ease and got to observing Frank closer. 

The man seemed tired. He tucked his fringe behind his ear, tattooed fingers rubbing on his almond eyes. He could clearly use some decent sleep in a warm bed. His lids were swollen and red from crying. 

Frank wished he was stronger. Harder to break. He wished he hadn’t just nearly collapsed on his dealer’s arms, but he had. He was sick and tired of the disgrace that mocked him everyday, filling up his lungs with so much agony he just wanted to let go and drown. But he couldn’t. Somehow, he just knew that it would be worse if he did. If he surrendered to their forces, or if he ended himself so no one could get him. He kept swimming because he knew that despite everything being unbearable now, the other path was even worse, and that frightened him stupid. 

So he kept going. He was exhausted. His boots were soaking wet and his toes were freezing. All he wanted was to get home, take a warm bath, take his pills and have a few hours of the deadest sleep he could possibly get. His chest warmed with how much he just wanted to get there soon, and he realized then he’d gone a block past where he was supposed to have turned left, so he did a quick 180. 

There was a man. A pale man with a bruised face who was staring at him and, for the look of his sudden halt, had been following him down the street. Both of them widened their eyes at each other, like deers in headlights frozen in time for a moment, and then Frank bolted and started running. 

“Shit”, Gerad mumbled, and started running after him. “Wait!”

“Fuck,” Frank ran as fast as he could, his feet squishy in wet shoes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” His thighs and lungs burned from how quick he was going, fueled by nothing but panic, and he kept running, dodging the eventual bypasser as swiftly as he could. What he didn’t predict, though, was the gigantic rat that came out from behind a streetlight. Before Frank could think, he flailed to the side, tumbled on his own legs and fell onto a pile of garbage bags. 

“Mother _ fucker _ ”, Gerard said, grabbing Frank by the sides of his coat, pulling him up to his feet and then jamming him against the wall. Frank closed his eyes and turned his face sideways, and Gerard pressed his body down with his own to avoid him from escaping while they both caught their breaths. “You,” he gasped, “fucking asshole, why did you run?” Frank still kept his eyes shut tight, like a kid waking up from a nightmare, and Gerard studied him close for a second. He was, again, kind of endearing. Shithead. “You’re a shithead,” he said, “but I’m not here to hurt you. Please look at me? I’m Gerard, I’m Brian’s friend.”

Frank finally did. He opened his eyes slowly and scanned Gerard’s bruised face slowly, then looked down to where his body was pressed flush against the wall by the other man’s. He swallowed audibly before saying, “Your dick is on my hip.”

Gerard blinked. “That didn’t sound like a complaint,” he answered before he could think, his mind working too fast from all of the lovely chats he had with demons on a regular. 

“Fuck off,” Frank finally shoved him off, and Gerard allowed it. “Who the fuck are you?” he growled, defensive, but also a little bit confused with the lack of nausea that blessed him. He was tired, his legs were about to give out and he smoked way too much to be running like that, but he felt… okay. Which was saying a lot.

“A friend,” Gerard raised his hands, “I promise. I was, erm. I was at Brian’s just now when you were there,” Frank started mumbling something angry and Gerard raised his voice, “and I think I know what’s wrong with you, and I want to help.”

“Are you a cop?” Frank asked, one raised eyebrow. He had really nice eyebrows. 

“No,” Gerard scoffed, “what the fuck.”

“Then what?” He crossed his arms, almost getting distracted by how good his coat felt - well, not really  _ his _ , but anyway - and tried to look tough. “You just eavesdrop on private conversations and chase people down the street because what, you get off on it?”

“I know you were just feeling me up, but usually I like to get some dinner before getting off on anyone,” Gerard barked back, his mood building up. “Those things that you see, what are they? Who are they?”

“It’s none of your fucking business,” he leaned against the wall behind him. “Who beat your face into that ugly mug?”

Gerard blinked in silence again. “What is it with that?” He waved his fingers around in a fairly flamboyant gesture, “That attitude?”

“You,” Frank said, imitating Gerard’s gesture with his own tattooed fingers, “look like you went face first into a meat grinder, come out of nowhere, chase me for three whole blocks, confess to spying on me, dry hump me in the middle of the street, ask me very personal questions and  _ I _ am the one with an attitude?”

“Okay, for starters, I have a  _ very _ symmetrical face and unique features, and you’d know that if you had any artistic abilities, but I guess swines can’t draw for shit,” Frank started protesting, but Gerard just continued louder, “And I was beat up by a fifteen year old girl who was possessed by a third grade demon with a shitload of stamina.” This seemed to get his attention, and Gerard took the break to light up a cigarette, inhaling deeply before adding, “I wasn’t dry humping you, by the way. When I am, you won’t have a doubt.”

“A what?” 

“A doubt.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “A  _ what _ beat you up?”

“Oh,” Gerard exhaled some smoke. “A demon. Well, technically a teenage girl. Possessed by a demon.”

They stared at each other silently for a minute. 

“Okay,” Frank finally said, “I'll try anything once, so I’ll indulge you on this one. Say you did. Get beat up by a teenage girl -”

“A  _ demon _ .”

“- it still doesn’t explain why you’re chasing me  _ and dry humping me _ on a filthy ass alley at one in the morning.”

“And  _ you _ haven’t explained what is it that you see,” Gerard said, looking around. He hadn’t realized how late it was. “Can we get out of here? Just - it’s a shit neighborhood.”

Frank looked around and nodded, and they started walking side by side, and Gerard offered him a drag of his smoke, which was promptly accepted. Like an offer for peace - or a truce, at least. “What I see,” Frank said slowly, like he was carefully choosing his words, “well… it’s more what I feel. Usually was, at least.” He took another drag and gave the cig back, shoving his hands back in the coat pockets. “I feel ugliness. You know, negative things. Thoughts, feelings, plans, memories. It makes me sick 24/7. And I had dreams, like really shitshow, Lars von Trier-meets-Saw bullshit nightmares.”

“Yikes,” Gerard said, and Frank hummed. “And now?”

Frank sighed heavily. “Now it’s worse,” he confessed in a small voice. “The whole Evil Reiki thing is getting unbearable, and a thing caught me earlier tonight.”

“What do you mean?” Gerard flicked away his smoke, leaning closer to Frank, who looked like he could dig out a hole and drop dead at any moment. “What caught you?”

“I don’t know,” he looked up and made a face, “like this… creature? This ugly fucking thing, man, it wasn’t even human, like, worms falling out of its mouth?, but it held me down and talked to me. Its touch burned so bad, but there were no marks after. I don’t know.” He took a quick glance at Gerard, trying to assess his reaction. “I was high, alright. But it was real. In my head, at least.”

“I believe you,” he said, not missing a beat, and Frank looked relieved. “What did it say to you? The, erm, the creature.”

Frank bit on the inside of his cheek, and his nose flared, his eyes watering. The fear that shook him was crystal clear, and Gerard felt his heart clench. “It said ‘ _ he’ _ wanted me alive,” he air quoted with his fingers, “whatever that means”. Gerard stopped dead in his tracks. Frank turned to face him. His bruised face got even paler, and Frank felt - for the first time - a negative wave coming off him. Apprehension. “What?”

Gerard had his jaw clenched and his eyes wide, and Frank thought of what he’d said about having a symmetrical face. He swallowed once, then twice. Cleared his throat. “Okay,” he finally said. “Fuck. Yeah, okay.”

And Frank didn’t know him, and he could be a murderous lunatic who had very bloody plans for him, but suddenly he wanted to trust Gerard. Because he didn’t feel a single ill vibration from him, and because his earnest, bruised face suddenly made Frank think of courage and faith. It was intoxicating, and Frank realized his breathing was heavy, despite their slow walk. “Okay what?” 

“I think I can help you,” he finally said, “Or, at least, I’m the next best thing.”

Frank took a step closer to him, his face drawn up in anticipation. “You know what this is?” His heart was leaping, the thought of not feeling that way anymore making him dizzy with hope. “You know how to treat this?”

“I - well, sort of,” he said, and his eyes wandered across the other man’s flawless skin for a minute, before he resumed walking. Frank followed in short, quick steps. “I think I know what it is, but we’d need to do some research, and…” He licked his lips, sensing the blow that would follow his words. “Uh, find the right prayers, I guess.”

It was Frank’s turn to halt on his heels. “The right  _ what. _ ”

“Frank…”

“The right what!” His voice became really loud and angry. “Prayers? You - I - my fucking GOD!” He shoved Gerard hard on the chest, and the taller man stumbled back, but didn’t try to fight back. He remembered when he was in Frank’s shoes, so he just took it silently. “You piece of - I told you everything, you fucking asshole! You know, I try, I swear, I  _ try _ to respect religious people but you just play so  _ nasty  _ with - I can’t believe you - you…” Frank breathed rapidly, his face red with his rage. “You fucking piece of shit!”

“Frank…”

“Shut up! Just shut the fuck UP!” he shoved Gerard again, his mouth slick with spit. “Prayers!, my  _ God _ . I don’t need prayers, you psycho freak, I need a fucking shrink. Fuck you, Gerard-Brian’s-friend, and fuck Brian too.”

Frank turned on his heels, but barely managed a couple steps before feeling Gerard’s hand on his shoulder. He fought it off, but it wouldn’t let go of him, and they wrestled for a moment, but Gerard was a lot stronger and more skilled than he looked, and soon he had his forearm pressed against Frank’s throat, holding him against the wall once again. Frank glared at him, his jaw clenched tight, putting up the bravest act he could manage with a broken heart. The hardest part, really, was holding back the tears. He had been really hopeful for a moment there. 

Moving slowly, Gerard kneed Frank’s thigh open and pressed himself flush against him. “Now,” he said, with a faint shimmy of his hips, “ _ this  _ is dry humping, cupcake.” He brought a hand to Frank’s chest, and the shorter man panicked there for a second, not knowing what was happening - was he getting raped? - but Gerard just skillfully slid a book out of his coat’s inner pocket before stepping back and releasing Frank entirely. “Please get my coat dry cleaned before getting it back to Brian’s, thank you.”

Frank didn’t miss a beat before running off. Gerard waited until he turned a corner before following him again. He put the book in the pocket of his hoodie, and prayed to God Frank’s fit hadn’t ruined the bindings. Brian would kill them both.

‡

Frank pulled his feet up the couch, a mug in his hands with some hot chocolate in it. The decadent drink promised to make him feel a little better, but it wasn’t exactly working. He did, however, take the pills he had gotten, and as he waited for them to kick in, he did some thinking about what had happened that night. 

That had officially been the weirdest day of his life. 

It was hands down the scariest - his stomach churned at the memory of that thing holding him, burning him with its touch, its foul breath and metallic voice, the worms falling off between its teeth. Frank knew that had been real, just not exactly in the world or in his mind. He was inclined to think his brain was broken, that he had a rare condition, that someone, somewhere, would be able to help him. It had to be that. The other option was too terrifying to be true. 

It had also been the longest time he had gone without getting shit vibes since his teenage years. The few minutes he spent with Gerard had been a balm which Frank hadn’t even realized until he walked away. Gerard was like some kind of morphine, numbing it, toning everything down, letting Frank just  _ be _ . 

Prayers, though. He couldn’t be serious… 

Frank drank his chocolate and tried searching his memory for any indication of Gerard in Brian’s life. He had spent many hours with Brian, tattooing him and getting beers after, and he knew his business was mostly antiques and weird shit, the pills were just an extra. He thought of the things Brian got inked and the decor in his house. Trinkets he saw lying around on tables when Frank visited for drinks or drugs, weird runes going down his spine and some Latin shit circling his wrists… the harder Frank thought about it, the more weird silences he remembered, usually from when Frank pried a little too much.  _ Well _ , he thought. Okay, maybe. 

Gerard, though. Maybe he’d worked some bullshit sorcery into Frank, because now that he was home and warm, he kept thinking of Gerard’s face as beautiful. And his presence was so soothing, his heart so obnoxiously brave, it was hard to stay mad at him. What if he was real? What if all that talk of demons, possessions and prayers were actually real? 

What if he could fix it?

Frank realized he was getting hopeful again, which was stupid and dumb and he shouldn’t ever let that happen. He’d realized a long time ago no one could help him, and he had made his peace with it. Ruining that would ruin him. He couldn’t let that happen. 

He got up and left the mug on the coffee table, walking quickly to his bedroom. He stumbled onto his bed with the lights still on - he never turned them off - and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, and he felt the warm fuzziness of the pills starting to work. There was also a scent - he fumbled on his bed - and there it was. The coat he’d gotten from Brian, but which was apparently Gerard’s. It smelled sweet but in a nice way, and he wondered why a slimy dude like that would smell nice like a vanilla drizzle on a cinnamon bun. 

He asked for a sign, any sign, of whether or not he should trust that man.

Frank held the coat to his face and closed his eyes, drifting off before he could get those wide green eyes out from beneath his lids. 

‡   
  


_ The sun shone bright and filtered through the windows, lighting the wide room, its yellow walls joyful and welcoming. Frank brought a spoon to his mouth. His ice cream was vanilla flavored and perfect.  _

_ “You must tell me,” a soft voice told him. Frank looked up and there he was. His face wasn’t bruised anymore, his skin white, a healthy blush on his cheeks. “Please.” _

_ “I don’t think it’s raining today,” Frank replied. He turned to his ice cream again, eating up in delight. It tasted as amazing as it smelled.  _

_ He was in his tattoo studio. It poured outside. Frank hugged his knees, leaning against the arm of the leather sofa. Only it wasn’t the sofa - it was Gerard’s arm under a leather jacket. “You must tell me,” he said again.  _

_ Frank sighed. He ate more ice cream. A gentle touch feathered on the nape of his neck, and he closed his eyes, enjoying it. He heard a soft giggle, and hummed in response. “I don’t know what you’d like to hear,” he finally said, and turned sideways to face the other man. His breath smelled like Frank’s ice cream, and it tickled against his lips. Frank thought of kissing him. “I don’t know what you want from me.” _

_ “I want you to trust me,” the man said, and touched Frank’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “I can show you everything.” _

_ Frank’s lids dropped instantly when their faces approached, and his heart thumped loud and alive in his chest. He looked up one last time, hoping to get another glimpse of those lovely hazel eyes, but what he found were flames instead.  _

_ His limbs flailed hastily as he got as far from that man as possible - and his features changed into dreadful, warped sneers. The air became thick and hot, the stench of sulfur hitting Frank like a slap to the face. He looked around desperately, trying to find a way out, but he was trapped in darkness again. “Not again,” he begged, his voice weak, “not again, please.” _

_ “My darling,” not-Gerard said with a thousand voices, “you have to trust me.” He laughed, then, a deep belly laughter, like it was hilariously entertaining, small teeth on display. He suddenly lurched forward and grabbed Frank by the hips, his fingers strong, sharp claws at its tips.  _

_ “Let go, let go!” Frank tried screaming, but his voice didn’t come out. “Please…”  _

_ Frank was handled and turned around. His pants were jerked away from his body and a hard blow hit the back of his thighs. Again. Again. _

_ “My sweet boy,” not-Gerard said, and Frank could hear a smile on his voice. He knew the next blow was coming, and he closed his eyes.  _

The jolt forward made him knock his head against the headboard. Frank gasped and opened his eyes, a frenzy taking hold of him and making him fall off the bed, crawl to the corner of the room before he could make sense of waking up. 

As he worked on his breathing and the smell of sulfur slowly left his nostrils, he assessed his own body, and wasn't surprised to realize that the back of his thighs were flaming hot, bright red, and pulsating in pain. 

He got his sign, alright.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading. It means the world.


	3. you're not you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Belial, think [this.](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/90/75/a4/9075a4d161dbfafcb1000ddba04d9ef8.jpg)

_Click, squeak. Click, squeak. Click, squeak_. The sound of high heels and a vinyl dress announced her presence before she arrived. 

He didn’t look up from his drink. She finally reached him, and even though she was standing and he was sitting, perched up on a stool and hunched over the counter, he was far taller than her. She tapped her long manicured nails against the counter. Her perfume was strong and expensive, but it didn’t fully mask her subtle rotten scent.

“Well,” he said, running a long finger around his glass. 

“I’m working on it.” She hesitantly placed a hand on his thigh. “Maybe if you…”

He batted her hand away. “I never took you for an incompetent.”

She huffed. “It’s _him”_ , she spat, “we should get rid of him.” 

He finally looked at her, and his angelic eyes held contempt. “He is off limits.” And then, as an afterthought, designed to hurt, he added, “I promised Her.”

Her face was expressionless except for the subtle flaring of her nostrils. He knew how to hit that nerve, everytime. “Well then.” She broke his gaze and turned around. “You promised, you do it.”

“Belial,” he warned, his tone deadly. She walked away from him nonetheless. 

“Fuck you, Lucifer.”

‡

The client was a moaner, and a really annoying one at that. Frank tried to focus on following a really complicated, delicate, fine-line art with his needle, but he kept getting distracted by the most inappropriate sounds. It was like the guy was getting a blowjob instead of a tattoo, and it took every single fiber of professionalism Frank had not to tell him to shut the fuck up or go tug it in the bathroom before continuing. 

“Excuse me, dear,” came a small voice from behind him, “Frank works better with some music on, don’t you Frankie?” 

Without waiting for a reply, Tierney slid huge, noise-cancelling headphones onto his head. Black Flag was playing loud, and suddenly Frank couldn’t hear a thing from the studio, including his client’s kink for ink. As Tierney’s tiny frame walked back to her station behind the counter, Frank mouthed a silent _thank you_ , and she winked at him before scrunching up her face at the client’s back. She picked up a bunch of tied-up herbs and continued doing what she’d been up to before - dipping it into water and flailing it around the studio. Her wiccan monthly protection ritual, Frank reckoned, and got back to his work. 

He had made a lot of progress when his music stopped, and he looked up to find Tierney sitting at the computer. She glanced at him briefly and typed furiously onto the computer, and then clicked something - Frank heard Google’s robotic voice in his ears saying _“I legit think that fucking asshole just came in his pants”._

Frank’s burst of laughter was fast and strong like a bark, and he tried to mask it as a coughing fit, finally getting his client to open his eyes and look around. He was wiping the tears off his eyes when the same robotic voice entoned, “ _Stop laughing motherfucker I'm the one putting up with his labored breath_ ”, which got Frank giggling like mad, mostly because it sounded so hilarious in the robot’s speech cadence. He pretended something had fallen onto the floor and bent over, hiding his laughter as well as he could on a hand. “ _I will take that off your paycheck and hex you into sexual impotence you idiot”_ , the voice said, which got Frank sobered up real quick, but when he sat up and glanced at Tierney, she was smiling, her face tiny and freckled under a short fringe, and his music resumed. 

“Sorry,” he said to the client, “asthma.” 

Nearly forty minutes later, they bid horny dude goodbye. The second the shop door closed, they both grunted, “Oh my _God._ ”

“I feel violated,” Frank said, rubbing his face with both his hands. 

“I am seriously going to report this man,” Tierney fired back, her New York accent so thick it transformed her tiny figure into a very threatening one. “I wish there was a Yelp but like, backwards, so I could give him zero stars and a trigger warning.”

“I don’t think you can leave zero stars on Yelp,” Frank wondered, twisting his tired fists. 

“Well that’s fucking bullshit,” she pouted, crossing her arms. “I did _not_ spend the last eight years of my life strengthening my throat chakra to just sit here and take his unceremoniously wanton moaning and say nothing.”

Frank hid his face on his folded arms on the counter, his entire body convulsing with laughter as Tierney ranted. Boy, he liked her. She owned the shop, worked reception, had the softest voice for clients and made a lot of crystal jewellery, but if you crossed her, she sounded like a plumber from Queens. “Anywho, Frankie boy,” she said at last, “go get your lunch break, I need you back in a couple hours for a big one.”

“Sure, hun,” he checked his pockets for his wallet and smokes. “Need anything?”

“No thank you, blessed be,” she touched his forehead with her thumb, “now fuck off, I gotta cleanse this space.”

Frank did as he was told. He had a cigarette between his lips when he stepped out, and stopped to light it up, one hand cupped over his face, as the usual rush of disgrace fell upon him from the bypassers. He inhaled and looked around. When he turned his head left, he was startled to see Gerard was there. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, nearly choking on smoke. He held his cig and blew out sideways, “what the fuck.”

“So you _are_ an artist,” Gerard mused, looking puzzled. “I didn’t know that.”

Everything hit Frank at once. The wave of nasty feelings wore off, but it was replaced by the confusion of their last encounter, his hope, his disappointment and, more than anything, the gutting fear he felt in the dream he had. Frank could swear the vanilla scent and the burning on thighs were back all of a sudden. His heart started racing and he felt a cold, sticky shiver shake him down. “Fuck off,” he muttered and looked back into the shop. Tierney was already holding some lit up incense and whispering to herself, and he knew better than to interrupt, so he just walked away from Gerard. 

“Frank, please wait,” he heard the other man’s nasally voice follow him. “I just meant, I didn’t know you worked with…”

“Dude, seriously, this is creepy,” he didn’t look at him, “borderline criminal.”

“What’s criminal?” Gerard caught up with him, with his bloody long legs. “I - I just came to get a tattoo, and it turns up you were there.”

“As if.” Frank glared at him for a brief second before looking down to the pavement, his legs working on their own. “Is this about your features?”

Gerard hesitated. “What?”

“Yes you have a symmetrical God damned face, now leave me alone.” Frank walked swiftly, and when he brought his cigarette to his face his hand was trembling, but he kept a resolute silence. Despite all of the red flags, he couldn’t help but noticing that the usual rotten vibes that affected him weren’t there, just like last time he was with Gerard, and he was too intrigued by that to protest more fiercely about the other man still walking with him like they were pals or boyfriends or whatever. It was only when Frank reached the door to the diner he usually had lunch in that he stopped and faced Gerard. “Well?”

“Well,” he echoed, hands deep in his pockets. “Look, I know. It was creepy of me to follow you, and babbling about prayers is a major no-no. Trust me, I’ve been there.” The ghost of something dark shadowed Gerard’s eyes for a second, but he seemed to push it away and tilt his chin up, defiant. “I’m not a creep, though, Frank, I promise. If you could just give me the benefit of the doubt for one second, you’ll see.”

“I’m not giving you shit,” he barked, “or trusting you whatsoever.”

“I - God! You’re so fucking thick,” he bursted, throwing his hands up. “I thought you had a _gift_.”

Frank takes his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other using nothing but his tongue and lips, his brow frowned. “A gift?”

“Well, yeah.” Gerard sighed heavily, gesturing with his hands. “Sensing the works of the Fallen is like, a gift, even if an unholy one. And if you’re never open to even _listening_ to anything different than what you already know, how the fuck do you expect things to ever change?”

Seeming to chew on the words, Frank stared at him for a moment longer, smoking without using his hands, the sharp wind against his face. “Fine,” he finally says, “lunch? Don’t be an asshole, though.”

“Promise,” Gerard said, and Frank flicked away his smoke so they could go inside. 

They sat at a small table for two on the deck and Frank ordered two simple daily specials, which Gerard realized were vegan and the smell coming from the kitchen was pretty fresh, like curry and lime. He shuffled slightly in his chair, feeling awfully anxious. He knew he looked unbothered, though. He had many years to practice. 

“So,” Frank said, staring him dead in the eyes. “Spill.”

Gerard laced his fingers together over the table. “Right, so. Look, I know it sounds… well, it sounds like bullshit,” he deadpans, “and you can say no, of course, but I really, _really_ wanted to talk to you and ask you a few questions.”

Frank looked at him silently. His face had healed a bit, and he no longer seemed so out of place. Despite his shit dream, which was a huge, sparkling red flag, and he is _not_ letting go if it, Gerard seemed… normal. Inviting, almost, and Frank blushed at the memory of their almost-kiss in his dream. “Fine,” he granted, leaning back on his seat. “No guarantees.”

“Sure,” Gerard mumbled, relieved, and decided not to comment on the fact that Frank is still wearing his coat. “I’ll, uh… ask, then.” The waiter approached with their bowls, and they waited until he left. “How long have you had this? Felt it?”

Digging mindlessly through his food, Frank pouted as he gave it a thought. “I’ve been seeing things since I was a kid,” he mumbled, and shoved a spoonful of pumpkin soup into his mouth. “Really disturbing shit since my teens, and the constant shitshow since I was like, seventeen I guess.” He dipped bread into his soup. “It comes and goes, though. It’s like they give me a break every now and then.”

“Who do you think ‘they’ is?”

Frank stopped moving altogether and blinked at him. “It’s all in my head.”

Gerard’s eyebrows rose high for a second, but he controlled his face soon enough. “Right.” He ate a spoonful of soup, and felt surprised at how good it was. It tasted of ginger, garlic and nutmeg. “It’s been getting worse, though?”

“Yeah,” Frank mumbled around a mouthful of moist bread. “Honestly, it’s shit all the time, unless I’m high as a kite, at the studio or…” he stopped, and his cheeks turned pink. 

“Or what?” 

Frank coughed lightly into his hand. “Around you, actually.” _In for a penny_ , he figures. 

It’s Gerard’s turn to blush violently, so much he couldn’t hide it. “Figures,” he said, trying to play nonchalant. “Now, uh… tell me about your parents?”

Frank snorted. “What the fuck about my parents? Is this a date?”

“Well, if you want,” Gerard smirked, his mouth working quicker than his brain. “No, like, uh. Your… father?”

“To Hell with _that_ asshole,” Frank barked, looking down at his food like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “I don’t have a father. Some dude knocked up my mom and bolted.”

“And her?”

Frank chewed and swallowed, his spoon hanging mid-air, and he dropped it with a loud clunk. He wiped his mouth and leaned back, crossing his arms, like he’s no longer hungry. “She was a bitch to me and she’s dead, but I loved her, is that a problem,” he says. It doesn’t sound like a question. 

“Nope. Sorry.” He kept eating his soup in silence, and eventually Frank resumed eating, too. Gerard waited a second before asking, “Do your hands tingle?”

Frank looked up at him, puzzled. “Yeah,” he said, in a _duh_ tone. “It’s called tendonitis. Most tattoo artists have it.”

Gerard nodded. “Right. Would you say you have a way with people? Like, uh… luck? Getting jobs, or… lovers.” His cheeks started burning again - God damn it, he handles the spawns of Satan on a daily basis, he should be able to do this without blushing. “Friends! Making friends,” he corrected himself, and pinched the bridge of his nose, not even caring to hide his embarrassment. When he opened his eyes, though, Frank didn't seem amused at his expense. In fact, he seemed to be giving the question a long thinking, and that’s when Gerard just _knows._ He knows, and it’s terrifying, and a pit opens in the bottom of his stomach, and he wants to be sick, but he holds on to whatever composure he can manage. 

“Look,” Frank interrupted his thinking, “why are you asking me all of this? I gave you the ‘ _benefit of the doubt_ ’”, he air quoted, “but you gotta give me something here.”

It takes Gerard a minute, given he’s trying not to let his eyes fill up. He felt mad at himself for getting emotional over this, but there’s no way he could ignore the similarities. He clenched his jaw and sniffed roughly, staring at Frank’s handsome face, his olive skin, droopy hazel eyes and perfect lips. He felt a sudden urge to paint him, as if he’s about to expire or be gone. He sure as Hell wishes he’d done that with his brother. But he can’t dwell on that now, so he just asks, “Do you believe in God?” When he sees the other man’s eyes start to roll, he adds, “Honest question. No agenda.”

“No.” It’s short, acid and unapologetic. “Why the fuck.”

Gerard crossed his arms over the table and rubbed on his own shoulder. The deck they were sitting on was open and the wind was catching up, but he was gripping at himself for comfort, not warmth. He was, for the first time in many years, at a loss of words. He tried to recollect how was it that he felt when the whole thing unravelled, and his thinking gets so loud he can already feel a headache coming. 

What could have anyone done to make him believe it? Was there any way to make things run smoother? Had there been any paths not taken in which his brother would still be alive? His chest is tight, like there was a rock tied to his lungs and hanging heavy farther than the eyes could see, deep down into the pits of Hell. 

And the hurt in his eyes is so palpable Frank could almost touch it, even if he weren’t able to feel how miserable Gerard had just turned. And he wanted to say something snarky, ask about cults or make a snide remark about the other man’s babbling about God and whatnot, but instead he just sits and keeps his mouth shut, for another second, until he can’t take it anymore. “What are you thinking?” Frank finally asked, trying, for the first time, to sound serene. 

When Gerard’s gaze met his, his eyes were so open they seemed vulnerable, all lashes and green irises and a subtle glint of moisture. Gerard licked his lips and sighed. “I just don’t want to make the same mistake twice,” he confessed, his voice small, and Frank couldn’t help but to believe him. “I could explain, but I guess you’ll just walk away if I do.”

“I won’t,” Frank said without missing a beat, and then staggered a little. “I mean - I did ask.” 

They measured each other up for a moment. Gerard swallowed, trying to think about the right words, and then deciding there are no right words. Whatever he says, sugar coating it won’t do. So he just said, “I think you were right.”

Frank frowned. “Often am.” He tilted his head, sensing the other man’s apprehension. “About what exactly?”

“The Devil really is out to get you.” And Frank didn’t say anything back - just held his gaze in a steady, defiant way, and Gerard grew mad respect for him. “I can explain,” he added, his eyes scanning the other man’s. “I can prove it, actually.”

Frank perked up in his chair. “I’m listening”.

‡

Gerard Way’s ability to get in his way was astonishing, really. 

Not that he minded much, most of the time. There had to be a balance. It was good practicing for the crew, too, and fighting a few exorcisms was part of the job description. Mostly, Gerard was a good mentor, and did the dirty work of teaching the trainees a few lessons.

Personally, the thrill of the chase made things fun, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t enjoyed their little meetings - Lucifer seldom had spare time to pay him personal visits, but they had been entertaining. He was easy on the eyes, too, and had a smart mouth on him. It was all part of the game.

But this… this was aggravating. The goal he had been plotting for so long was finally so close, his plans in motion, his team awaiting, and _yet_. 

Apart from himself and a handful of his closest advisors, the guys were having trouble reaching Frank. They couldn’t get him in his parlor, thanks to that witchy little thot, and now Gerard was shielding him in way too many aspects. Gerard’s presence and even his holy clothing were a huge repellent, and Lucifer couldn’t spare his Captains to do the job, as they were busy conducting very important projects elsewhere. It was mostly Belial, and now _she_ was pissed, too. Lucifer was very fond of jealousy and wrath, but it had backfired on him badly. 

He couldn’t afford having Frank become aware of the whole scheme. He had taken his time, giving him a shitload of benefits - looks, talent, luck, charisma, getting every damn thing he wanted with very little effort - before showing him how bad it could get if he said no. But if the man realized there could be a single shred of hope, they’d be doomed. It would delay everything, and Lucifer was never known for being patient or understanding. 

Heaving a sigh, Lucifer squinted, watching the two lovebirds having lunch across the street. He’d thought the silly nightmare would be enough to repel Frank from the man, his scent, his voice, his stupid baby eyes - _God, he looked like Her_ \- but apparently he had been mistaken. They were talking in a disgustingly civil manner for quite some time, and then they got up and left the diner together. 

Flaring with irritation, Lucifer started following them from a distance. He could hear a car crash in his wake, and surely everyone who crossed his path would have a terrible, angry, maybe murderous day. 

Belial, turns out, had been right. 

He had to get rid of Gerard Way. 

‡

The hallway lights were flickering. Frank climbed the steps behind Gerard, and the vanilla scent that wavered off him was both intoxicating and disturbing. When they reached a shabby-looking door, Frank noticed the frame had a bunch of inscriptions written in tiny letters all over it, and decided not to even _ask_. He was already following his religious-nut stalker into an apartment in a disgusting building in a shitty part of town. What else could happen?

“Welcome,” Gerard said, opening the door to let Frank in. 

The apartment was surprisingly well lit, and the living room seemed very spacious - or it had too little furniture, Frank assumed. An old couch covered in a knitted quilt faced a TV set so old Frank felt like it belonged in a technology museum. The coffee table was covered in sketchbooks, pens and coffee mugs that seemed to have a Christmas theme on all of them, even though it was only early April. There was a bookshelf made of pallets overstacked with books, a shitload of plants everywhere - most of them growing in recycled containers like soup cans, Crisco buckets, fabric softener bottles and whatnot. And that was it. 

“Lovely deco,” Frank said, stepping in. He was startled by a hiss coming from his side and nearly jumped off his skin when he saw a cat staring at him, teeth out. 

“Voorhees, _no,_ ” Gerard said, and picked up the cat in his arms. “Sorry, we don’t get many visitors,” he said and kissed his pet’s little forehead. “It’s okay, buddy, he’s our friend.”

“You named your cat after a serial killer,” Frank mused, trying not to seem endeared by what he was seeing. “And I walked into this place willingly. Jesus Christ.”

Gerard snorted. “Don’t worry, I won’t choke you or anything,” he put the cat down and looked up at Frank. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

“I am, actually,” Frank replied without missing a beat, his hands in his coat pockets, sick and tired of Gerard’s bullying with sexual innuendos, and it caught the other man off guard. “Are you?”

He noticed the fierce blush that crawled up Gerard’s neck, his mouth hanging open, and Frank realized that now he _was_ thinking about clasping his hand around that flushed throat and watching his lips part from it. His lower body had an immediate reaction to that, too. Well, fuck.

“Please make yourself comfortable while I make some coffee,” Gerard said at last and turned around quickly, disappearing into the corridor. He went into his kitchen and opened the refrigerator, staring emptily at it, hoping the chill would neutralize the heat that had taken over him. He tried to stop thinking about tattooed fingers, or about how much else would be tattooed, too. Full sleeves, he knew that much, he’d seen him in a t-shirt; his neck too, but his back? His chest? “Fuck,” he muttered to himself, “stop it.” He grabbed the coffee tin from inside the fridge and a kettle from the sink, filling it with water and putting it on the stove. 

Gerard could never, ever go there. It was the worst idea he could possibly have. He did exorcisms for a living and Frank was Satan’s dearly beloved, for what he could tell. And even if they managed to get rid of that, which Gerard had no idea they could, he wasn’t much of a catch. His life was a mess, he was penniless and probably on his way to a premature death. It would be selfish, reckless, and the consequences could be disastrous. 

It really didn’t help that Frank looked like _that_. And his energy, too. Like he really could just walk in there and get Gerard on his knees with one fierce command and… 

His train of - very inappropriate - thoughts was interrupted when he heard what seemed to be the front door banging. “Frank?” He called, but there was no response. He rushed back into the living room and realized that it was empty. He stomped inside, checking the bathroom, the bedroom, calling for Frank’s name, but he wasn’t there. Gerard returned to the living room, looking at the door, like it could give him an answer. It didn’t. 

Voorhees meowed softly from behind him, and when Gerard looked, the cat was sitting on top of a sketchbook on the couch. Gerard knew he hadn’t left it there - Frank must have been looking through it. “Voorhees, get off, you’ll ruin it,” he said, and the cat obeyed immediately. When he picked up the notepad, though, he nearly choked. 

There was a very realistic drawing of Frank on it. Naked. Crucified. Dead. “What the fuck,” Gerard muttered, and realized that the corner of the page had a long list of instructions of how to torture, kill and offer Frank to some god. 

His breath unsteady and heart racing, Gerard looked over the whole thing again, but before he could make any sense of it, the notebook burst into flames in his hands. He dropped it quickly and stepped back, and a loud shrieking sound filled the room. He covered his ears with his hands, his face scrunched up, watching as the flames consumed themselves into smoke, and then nothing. A scorched mark on the floor was all there was left of it. 

Gerard dropped to his knees and clasped his hands in front of his mouth, muttering a prayer so quickly he could barely get the words right. He had his eyes closed. His heart was beating so fast his ears were ringing loud, and he couldn’t even hear the kettle as it started whistling in the kitchen. 

‡

Frank was merely one block from the studio when the drizzle became a storm. He had to seek shelter under a run down hotel marquise, and it was only then he allowed himself to catch his breath. 

He felt sick. For so many reasons, he hadn’t felt that sick in a long time. There was the usual thing, which resumed immediately the second he set foot out of Gerard’s apartment, but it was mostly about what had happened in there. 

His guard had been down, a feeling of well-being making him cozy inside those stained walls, and the conversation - the _flirting_ \- had left him with a faint smile on his face. He couldn’t shake the thought of Gerard’s pale skin under his fingers, wondering if the rest of his body was as lovely as his face, and if he would put out the act if Frank ordered him around. The thoughts had been getting too real, and he had decided to look around the room for a distraction. 

He eyed the books on the shelf for a bit, many of them making very little sense or in different languages, when his eyes fell onto the coffee table. There were drawings, and Frank remembered Gerard talking about art. He immediately sat on the couch and started flipping through the first notepad he could reach. There were lots of sketches, mostly cartoons, and it was awesome. Frank was thoroughly invested in exploring them, but when he turned another page, there was _that_.

So yes, it turns out Gerard was indeed planning on killing him. Torturing and crucifying him, really, and it was such a fucking cliché Frank felt mad mostly at himself for being so stupid. 

He should’ve known better. 

Now he could smell smoke, which made him crave a cigarette, and so he pulled his pack from his pocket and stuck a cigarette to the corner of his mouth. He patted his pockets for his lighter, but couldn’t find it anywhere. 

“Fire?” Came a low voice from his side, and he startled - he hadn’t realized there was someone there. 

Frank tilted his head a bit, accepting the light that was already expecting him, and inhaled sharply. “Thanks,” he said, not even looking up to whoever was helping him. He looked back down the street, and he could already see the studio from where he was standing. He was close to late and Tierney would be really mad, but he was also dying to get there so he could feel a little less shitty. 

“Beautiful storm, don’t you think?” Said the man who lit him up, and Frank could hear how much taller he was, but still didn’t look up at him. 

“I guess,” he mumbled, feeling royally pissed off. He had just almost stepped into his death by the hands of a Jesus freak. A chatty stranger was the last thing he needed. He closed his eyes and wished, with everything he had, that the fucking rain would just stop already. 

It did. 

“Thank God,” he said, and walked away immediately, crossing the street without even looking out for cars. 

“Thank _God?”_ Lucifer gasped from where he was still standing, lighter in hand. “Ungrateful little shit.” 

He watched Frank enter the shop before leaving, whistling happily. 

‡

Frank had been spending almost all of his time inside the studio. He came in early and cleaned, ordered his lunch to be delivered, helped Tierney with her crafts when he had no appointments and stayed after hours to help her close. One day, he even offered to walk her home, unwilling to let go of her soothing presence. “Alright, Frankie, you don’t wanna get in my pants or whatever, do you?” She asked when they reached her place. 

“No!” He cried out, “No, I just… I've been feeling a little off, I’m sorry.” 

She’d let him sleep on her couch, and that night Frank only had one short, terrifying nightmare. He counted it as a win. The next day, he bought her a “ _WORLD’S BEST BOSS_ ” mug, but made sure to go home when his appointments ended for the day. 

When he came in the next day - late morning, for his first appointment, no earlier - Tierney greeted him at the door. “Hey, boo,” she said with her cute voice and concerned face, “you have a visitor.” She came a bit closer to Frank and whispered to his ear, her accent thicker, “If he’s the reason you’ve been acting weird, tell me and I’ll find a way to get some of his hair so we can bind him the Hell away.” She smiled and walked off to her station, and only then Frank realized Gerard was waiting by the lounge.

None of them moved. Frank’s eyes went frantically from Tierney to Gerard, but he tried not to seem too alarmed. It was his workplace, after all. He approached the lounge slowly, hoping the guy wouldn’t be as crazy as to kill him in public. 

“I will call the Police,” he warned, his voice low, the second he was within reach. “And stab you.”

“I know,” was all Gerard said. He was so still it seemed deliberate, like he didn’t want to scare Frank off. “I’m just here to say something.” 

“I don’t want to hear it, and I want you to leave right. The fuck. Now.”

“Frank, please,” he begged, his eyes huge. Frank felt a wave of sorrow emanating from him, like hopelessness and frustration, but no violence. No ill plans. “Just hear me out, thirty seconds.”

Frank crossed his arms. God, he was stupid. “Twenty nine.”

“I didn’t make that,” Gerard almost took a step closer to him, but refrained, and stood still. “That drawing. I draw comics. It wasn’t me. I never - I don’t want to kill you, or hurt you. Someone - something - wanted you to see that. It burst into flames the second I touched it.”

Frank scoffed. Gerard’s gaze wavered and he looked even sadder, if that was even possible. 

“I’ve been truthful to you. Every step of the way.” He balled his fists, trying not to gesture with his hands. “Remember that. They’ll start touching you,” he warned, his voice a touch lower. “More. Your nightmares will start changing. You won’t always be tortured, now. You’ll be the torturer. You’ll crave meat.” 

“Your time is up,” Frank interrupted and started to turn away. He felt something wet hit the back of his neck and twisted on his heels. “What the fuck did you just do?”

Gerard hid a small vial as fast as he could in his hoodie pocket. “It’s just protection.” 

“I don’t - you know what, here,” he started unbuttoning his clothes, “take your stupid fucking coat.”

“No! You keep it,” Gerard started walking away, “prayers stitched in the seams. Come find me.”

Gerard left before Frank could shove the coat into his hands. He stared at the door, heart beating fast. He could feel water running down his neck, down his spine. 

“Are you fucking that guy?” He heard Tierney ask, and she looked pensive.

“No,” Frank said, sitting on the leather sofa. The coat was still in his hands. His heart was racing.

“Mind if I do?” She said, still looking out the shop window. 

“Yes,” Frank barked back. “No. Whatever.”

She raised her eyebrows so much they hid into her fringe. “Blimey,” she muttered, walking away. “Scorpios.”

‡

Brian counted the bills before handing Frank a plastic baggie. “Thank you for your business,” he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “But I’d really like it if you stopped.”

Frank blinked at him twice. “Excuse me?”

Putting his wallet into his pocket, Brian looked at Frank with an expression so similar to his boss it was uncanny. “You can OD on those if you want, man, it won’t stop this shit from getting worse.”

“When _was_ that?” Frank asked, making a face. 

“When was what?”

“When was it that I fucking asked you for advice? Jesus,” he turned around to walk towards the door. 

“That’s not you, Frankie,” Brian said, and he sounded so sad Frank turned around to look at him. “That asshole, hurtful persona.”

Suddenly Frank had a flash of earlier that morning, when Tierney handed him an actual written warning of professional misconduct after he got into a fight with a client during a maori tattoo. “ _You are so full of shit, Tierney, you bitch about cultural appropriation all the time, you can’t see the word blue sage, it gets your knickers in a frenzy and now you’re giving me shit for telling that guy he’s a poser piece of trash?”_

“ _You’re not you_ ”, she had said. She had told him to get out of her sight until further notice. The notice was yet to come, and Frank was afraid he was out of a job. Not that he had trouble finding jobs, but he liked that one. He liked Tierney. And he fucked it up. 

Now Brian. 

“You should go see Gerard,” he heard the man say, and snapped. 

“What is it with you and him, huh?” He took a couple steps back into the room. “Are you two cahooting? Fucking? What?”

“Frankie…”

“Don’t _Frankie_ me! He’s a creep, Brian, and you’re a fucking dealer, so shut the fuck up.”

“He can save your life, Frank,” Brian deadpanned, as calm as ever. “It’s kind of in danger, if you haven’t noticed.”

Frank’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t deny the fact that Gerard had been right - all of what he said was happening - and it was driving him insane. “How could you possibly know that?”

Brian sighed. “Look, I know Gerard since we were kids, alright? He’s not a murderous freak. He’s weird, alright, but not a killer. He just wants to help.”

“And why the fuck is that?!” Frank threw his hands up and he realized it was his biggest question, the thing he didn’t understand. “Why does he give a shit about what happens to me, huh? Why would I matter to him?”

“His brother died, okay?” Brian shouted, apparently tired of Frank’s whining, and got him to shut up. “Something very similar happened to him, and the ending was nasty. That’s what he does what he does. That’s why he cares. And that’s why he’s possibly the only person who can keep you from dying a shit, horrible death.”

Frank bit his lip. He felt tears running down his cheeks. “Maybe I should,” he mumbles. “Die a shit, horrible death.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “Maybe you should pull your head out of your ass for a second and realize that, if you do, the score will be favorable to someone who shouldn’t ever be allowed to win.” He walked past Frank and opened the door. “Not everything is about you, Frank. Now go.”

‡

The sky was grey again. Frank stepped out of Brian’s building, his chest heavy, and started walking home. He had barely made it a block away before a hand grabbed him by the arm. 

He was tackled onto the floor and a large foot pressed his face against the concrete. He could feel hands all over his body, ripping his clothes away, and they giggled as he shouted. His arms were trapped and his legs spread open, a cold terror filling his guts. 

Suddenly he heard a voice - it wasn’t coming from anywhere specific, simply filling his mind, resonating through his heart when it said, “Do you want it to stop?”

“Yes,” he cried out, his cheek squished against the pavement. His tears were wetting the cement and spit was turning into mud. “Please, make it stop, please.”

When he opened his eyes again, he was alone, lying on the pavement. An old lady watched him, puzzled, from across the street. His clothes were intact, from his hoodie to his shoes. There was no one else around. 

Frank hugged his own knees and cried until he couldn’t breathe.


	4. like an itch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank comes clean. Gerard gets a visit. Lucifer makes plans.

In the days that followed his outburst at work and at Brian’s, Frank shut himself inside his apartment and tried to keep busy. He attempted to make something out of what had been happening, but it wasn’t easy to think when his mind was ablaze in a constant stream of whatever he was calling it now. It was like he was tuned into Doom Station and every nasty thought in a ten mile radius filtered into his head. He felt chronically nauseated and unable to focus on anything rational, and more than once he caught himself going through Tierney’s social media profile, as if looking at her tiny freckled face would make him feel better, like it did when she was around. 

Given his inability to do anything of mildly intellectual nature, Frank busied himself physically. He cleaned his apartment, down to scrubbing the bathroom tiles with a toothbrush. He punched and kicked at the punch bag hanging in his living room until he was out of breath and his knuckles were raw, and then some more. He kneaded so much dough he made piles of discs and froze for making pizza later, and he made enough bread to leave one at the door of every apartment in his building. He did push-ups and crunches until his muscles burned, and his headphones were constantly attached to his head playing heavy, loud music.

By his fourth day of voluntary isolation, Frank was sure he had started hallucinating. He kept getting glimpses of red in the corner of his eye, and often felt like he wasn’t alone in his home. The image of a woman was imprinted in his eyes, even though he had never seen her or even dreamed of her. She was beautiful, her features small and body voluptuous, but her figure made Frank uneasy, like she could become something else entirely at any given moment. He sketched her in his notebooks more than once, like he did with so many tattoo ideas he came up with, but all of the drawings ended up shapeless, and he wondered how much he had had to drink before sundown. 

It was early evening when his phone rang with Tierney’s ringtone - she herself had gone through his mobile and arranged the settings into playing  _ Africa _ by Toto when she called.  _ “It’s a beautiful, timeless classic, much like myself” _ , she had explained when he questioned the peculiar choice of song. He remembers that briefly, and smiles before answering the phone, and she tells him to come in the next morning, and Frank was never happier to have his boss call him into work. 

He shows up to the parlour with three loaves of bread and a large tupperware full of biscotti on his arms. The moment he steps in, and the door chimes closed behind him, the silence that follows is pure bliss. Not that the shop is silent - quite the opposite, really, given the other tattoo artist is working on a chatty girl and the piercing girls are both busy in their rooms, too. Music is playing, needles are working and everything is running as usual. But Frank’s Antenna for Evil doesn’t quite work inside those doors, and he is so grateful he almost starts crying on the spot. 

“Hey Frankie,” Tierney beckons him closer from behind the counter, and he approaches her cautiously, not sure about whether or not he’s getting fired. “What’s that?”

“Baked goods,” he puts everything on top of the counter. “For everyone. And an olive focaccia for you, especially.”

Tierney raises her eyebrows. “Who made those?”

“Yours truly,” he gives her a weak smile, and figures he might as well get it over with. “I’m sorry I was an asshole to you. Not only is it unacceptable as an employee, but you’re seriously my favorite person in the world and it kills me that I hurt you, okay?” He blurts out quickly, his voice low so his coworkers can’t hear him. “I don’t know what came over me that day.”

Frank can’t look up, and digs his fingernail into a cleft on the counter, but he can feel Tierney’s eyes on him. Eventually her finger comes to his chin, to tip his head up so he can look into her dark eyes. “Sweety,” she says, her voice small, “If your favorite person in the world is your boss, you really,  _ really  _ need to get laid.” 

He lets out a relieved giggle that turns into a frustrated grunt and hides his face in his hands. When he looks up again, Tierney has circled the counter and walked up to him, and he easily envelops her in a hug. Frank is a short man, but she is the very definition of tiny, and he rests his chin on top of her head. Her touch is soothing, and he closes his eyes as he holds onto her for dear life. 

“I’m worried about you,” she whispers softly. “I’m gonna need you to talk to me.”

“I will,” he grants, and they part so he can look at her properly. “I owe you that much.”

She looks at him in the eyes, and then upwards, like she’s checking his hair, and downwards, like she’s checking his clothes. A full thorough inspection later, her eyes lack the tiny spark they usually carry, and Frank can’t help but to feel ashamed, like he has disappointed her. Even though Tierney is almost exactly Frank’s age, a few months away from hitting thirty, he has always been under the impression that she’s older and somehow his superior - in an older sister kind of way, apart from being his boss. 

“Alright, Mario Batali, go get ready,” she finally says, grabbing the baked goods from the counter, “you have an appointment in 20, and I’ll catch you later.”

‡

It isn’t until almost eight that Frank finishes his last client. Everyone else has left and Tierney has even cleaned up for closing, so when they shut the front door for the night, she immediately gets Frank to follow her into her office. 

Frank realizes he has never been to her office. When he had come in for a job, he merely said he’d been looking for a new shop and she accepted him instantly, and they barely went over details before he signed his contract right there on the counter. Now, as he walks into her private space, he can’t help a small smile at how very  _ Tierney  _ the whole thing looks. 

It’s a lot softer than the rest of the shop, which is decorated with all of the tacky tattoo regular stuff. Her office, though, has off-white walls and a bunch of plants; herbs dry hanging upside down from branches and there’s a dresser full of crystals, candles and other things on top. 

“Sit, Frankie,” she beckons, and he does, facing her over the desk. There’s a lot of files on it, and for a moment he remembers she’s actually a lawyer and very good at all things corporate. It’s only then that his eyes fly up and he realizes there’s a star hanging on the wall, a circle around it, all made of branches and tied up with what seems to be sisal. Following his gaze, Tierney looks back to see what he’s gaping at, and she rolls her eyes as she sits back. “It’s not a Satan thing,” she says in a tone that makes Frank think it’s not the first time someone stares at the star. “It’s the five elements.”

Frank counts in his head. Air, Earth, Water, Fire. “What’s the fifth?”

“Ether,” she sighs, waving her hand. “Energy. Spirit. Heaven. The aboveness.”

“God?”

“Sure,” she shrugs, “if you’re into that sorta thing.”

Frank laughs quietly. “Maybe,” he concedes. “I did think it was a Satan thing, for a second.”

Tierney squints at him. “Y’know, you really don’t know shit about pagan symbolism for a fucking tattoo artist, and as your boss I should be concerned, but I’m actually kinda relieved.”

Frank laces his hands on his lap, feeling suddenly like he has done something wrong. “Relieved?”

“Well, yeah!” She almost shouts, distressed, and pauses to light up one of her artisanal cigarettes. “You’ve been acting weirder than normal,” she starts, counting on her fingers as she goes, “you won’t get out of the shop, you start looking like shit, you pray in your goddamn sleep, you start acting like a jerk and now you walk in here with an aura that looks like you made a deal with the Devil and he’s come to collect.”

When she pauses to take a drag from her cigarette, Frank says, “I pray in my sleep?”

“Oh my God, so not the point,” she blows her smoke sideways. “Look, Frankie, you know I love you, but if you’re gonna walk into my space bringing in that sorta shit, I’m sorry but you’re gonna have to tell me what the fuck you’re up to.”

And then it hits Frank, as he looks around again. That  _ space _ she’s talking about is her sacred space. Tierney cleanses her space, cares for it, puts her energy into it every single day. And if he’s going down that road, and why the fuck not, given his past couple weeks, she could read him. She could sense his foul, heavy presence by her side everyday, and from what he could recall from her rantings, it probably drained her, too - hell, maybe he only felt better near her because  _ he _ was draining her. Maybe all of those rituals, incenses and moon water she splashed around were getting more frequent because of  _ him _ , and she knew that, and still she didn’t send him away. His gaze went from her face to the huge heavy crystal hanging from her neck -  _ Selenite _ , he remembered - and he hoped it was shielding her from whatever was it that he bore. He felt safe in the parlour, he felt safe around her. She protected him everyday. It finally clicked, and he felt dumb for taking so long.

“Frankie,” she says, her accent as thick as his mother’s was, “for the sake of transparency, you’re not doing shadow work, are you?”

“I don’t even know what that is.” His eyes are starting to sting, and he blinks fast. “I thought you were going to fire me.”

She scoffs. “Baby, you’re the best tattoo artist in Jersey,” she says softly, reaching for his hand, and he lets her. “Everybody wants you, you’re booked solid for the rest of the year. I don’t even know why you work here. You could be doing your own thing.”

He shakes his head. “I’d probably be dead without you, Tierney, you have no idea.”

“Then tell me,” she pleads, her eyes pained. 

So he does. 

He tells her about being a kid and seeing things, and about being a teenager and a little too depressed to be normal. He tells her about his mother coming home from Sunday mass and hanging herself from the ceiling fan when he was nineteen. He tells her about trying to lift her dead weight and shouting his lungs off for help, knowing it was his fault. He tells her about his evil antenna picking up every ill thought and energy from those around him, about it getting worse and about the drugs. He tells her about terror and powerlessness and about feeling like he just got out of a manic episode or a possession one, he’s not sure. He tells her about being terrified of dying and at the same time being obsessed with the idea of killing himself so all of it could just fucking  _ stop _ . He tells her about Gerard the exorcist, his coat, his bruised symmetrical face, his smell, his arms, his theories and his cat. He tells her about hoping and getting crushed again, and he even tells her about how she’s the only person before Gerard to make him feel a little less shitty.

He tells her about maybe, just maybe, starting to believe that there was really something out there.

Frank talks for over an hour, and when he’s finished, he’s parched. 

Tierney gets each of them a beer from her minibar and sits back on her chair. They drink in silence for a few minutes; she seems to be digesting everything and Frank is trying to recover from the one too many times he felt tears running down his face as he spoke. 

When Tierney finally speaks, her voice is small, but it’s not her client voice; she just seems sad. “I wish you would’ve told me sooner,” she admits, her eyes cast down to the floor. “This is fucked up.”

“You believe me?” Frank asks. “You believe… it? Them? I don’t know. Gerard.”

She finally looks up at him. “Frank, I believe in a whole lotta shit, and for what it’s worth, you should, too.” She composes herself and sits up a little straighter. “And, uh… well.”

“You need me gone, don’t you?” He blurts out, and realizes that’s why. That’s why he hadn’t told her yet. He respects her too much to believe she’s cuckoo or whatever, and he knew she would believe it, and it would make it all real. Also, she wouldn’t want that shit in her life. He hopes for a quick  _ no, Frankie _ , but it doesn’t come, and his heart sinks farther in his chest. 

“I’m terrified,” she finally says. “Why are you even here?”

Frank blinks. “I - well you told me to come in today…”

“No, boo,” she drags her chair closer. “You should be working on sorting this out with him.”

“Him?”

“With the exorcism cutie, whatshisname.” She squeezes his hand tight. “Frankie, this ain’t no joke. There’s some fucked up, bad juju shit all over you, so bad even I can see it, and if your man says it’s the Devil, baby boy... I’d take his fucking words and prayers A-fucking-SAP.”

Frank nods. His heartbeat is irregular and he feels a bit sick in a totally different way. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters, and takes a large swig of his beer. “I’ll go to him.”

“Take some time off,” Tierney says, and he finds her gaze, a bit steadier now. “I want you to take at least two weeks off, effective immediately, and figure that shit out. More, if you need. Your job will be here when you’re back, as long as you’re alive to take it.”

“But Tierney,” he begs, and doesn’t even care if he’s whining. “I don’t… my life is hell when I’m not here.”

“You stay with him, then,” she snaps back. “You say you feel just as good around him. I’m sorry, Frankie, but this is some major league shit. I can’t have that.”

“That what? The fucking Antichrist working for you?” His voice is light, but his chest isn’t. He shakes his head. “I know. It’s fine.”

“It’s not. It’s not fine.” She raises from her chair and goes to the dresser in the corner of the room, shuffling through its drawers. She turns back and walks to Frank, a small vial in her hands. She opens it and wets her fingertips with some oil, makes him stand up, and then she says, “be quiet now.”

She touches him with light, sticky fingers and mumbles inaudible things. She starts on the top of his head and goes down - in between his eyes, his throat, his chest, his belly and even down to his groin. She unceremoniously shoves her hand beneath his clothing, too, but she’s so entranced there’s not a remote chance he’s interrupting her, and he feels like she’s a healer of sorts. When she finally takes her hand from way too close to his dick, she puts her thumb on his forehead and murmurs her usual “Blessed be,” and Frank wants to cry. Again. 

“Thank you,” he says, even though he’s not really sure what he’s thanking her for. 

“You wear this,” she says, and puts a necklace around his neck. He can see one of her tiny little spell jars attached to the bottom. “Made it for myself in the last waning gibbous, but you can have it. Puts your intentions into it everyday,” she searches his eyes, and realizes he’s a bit confused. “Just ask for protection.”

“Ok--  _ ow _ , Tierney!” he rubs his head where she just yanked some of his hair. 

“I’ll do all I can to protect you, Frankie,” she says, walking back to her dresser and putting his hair into a little chest. She seems, for the first time since Frank met her, nervous. “We’ll figure something out if you really need to drop by, or if I have trouble with the bookings… but later. And I’ll text you everyday and teach you what I know, but I’m gonna need you to go now.”

He sighs. They look at one another from a few feet away, and it feels like a goodbye. “I hate this,” he says, and drops his gaze to the floor. It feels like he’s just lost her, too, and it sends a thousand alarms ringing inside of his head. He hears her step closer but doesn’t look up, and then she’s hugging him, her bony frame a lighthouse of comfort. 

“If you need me, just rub the pendant and say my name three times,” she jokes, but none of them laugh. “I wish I was a real badass wizard master, love. I’d fight them for you.”

He hugs her tighter. “I know,” he kisses her dark hair. “Thank you.”

“Now you go find him,” she says, stepping back, and her eyes are glistening. “Get an exorcism. Suck some dick.”

“Tierney!”

“Eh,” she shrugs, hopping onto her desk. “Maybe this is God working mysterious ways or some shit, whaddayaknow.”

‡

Frank stands under the flickering lights on the hallway for what seems like forever. He has pictured every possible scenario to happen: angry Gerard, smug Gerard, actual monstrous murderous Gerard… he just hopes the man will accept his apologies. Frank had been home and worked the stove quickly, took a shower and a cab so he could be there before ten. Whatever Tierney had done to him was certainly working, and he felt only a little bit sick, but the memory of the blissful peace he had found inside that shabby apartment was clawing at his chest and he really, really wants to go in.

Drawing up a deep breath, Frank decides to rip the band-aid off and knocks quickly on the door. Despite the cenarios he’s pictured, none of them had included what he does see.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mumbles when the door opens. 

Gerard eyes him head to toe, and then his gaze lingers on the box Frank is holding. “Is that pizza?”

“Yes,” he cringes a little, “and you’re… wet.”

Gerard smiles. “I had Careless Whisper on the radio a minute ago, too,” he steps aside for Frank to walk in, and makes his body visible from behind the door. “Come in.”

Frank tries not to stare, but it’s hard. As Gerard shuts the door, he turns to him and can’t help but to just  _ look _ . Turns out his sturdy wardrobe-framed shape and his round face gave the wrong impression, and Gerard’s body is strong, lean, pale and scarred. Not one single tattoo, as suspected. And he’s not ripped, thank God. Just the right amount of…

“Delicious,” Gerard says as he points to the box, bringing a towel up to his dripping hair. “That smells delicious. Please tell me I can eat it.”

“Oh yeah, here,” he hands over the box. “I, uh. I’m sorry,” he shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. “For… you know.”

Gerard smiles. “Just gimme a second,” he says and disappears down the corridor. 

Frank looks around, but barely registers the place, which seems the same as the last time he was there. He steps back and leans against a wall, fighting the blush that crawled up his neck. The lights are low and the radio is on, and the whole room is heavily filled with the scent of vanilla and a fresh shower. The image of Gerard opening the door meshes with every cheap porn Frank has ever watched and suddenly he has an image of his dick popping off the pizza box, which turns out to kill the boner he was actually threatening to get in real life, and he thanks God for small mercies. 

He jumps when something tangles in his legs, but it turns out it’s only Voorhees, who stares up at Frank and meows softly before disappearing behind the couch. The room is warm and Frank removes his coat - Gerard’s coat, really, and he wishes he’d thought of an excuse as to why he has not  _ and will not _ give it back - and drapes it over the arm of the couch carefully. 

When Gerard comes back, his hair is damp but not dripping and he’s wearing an old Star Wars shirt that matches the worn out pajama pants he had on before. He has the pizza box and a stack of napkins, and he sets them on the coffee table, inviting Frank to sit across from him. The ease with which he accepts the food is almost disturbing, given how they had left things the last time they’d met, but it’s not like Frank is complaining. 

Each of them grabs a slice of pizza and eats, and Gerard hums loudly in appreciation. “This is amazing,” he mumbles around a mouthful of cheese and broccoli. “Thank you, I was starving.”

“No problem.” He watches Gerard go for seconds but he’s still nibbling on his slice, enjoying being able to draw deep breaths, like he couldn’t breathe properly before. It’s only then he remembers he brought something else, too, and he reaches back to his coat and retrieves a small bottle of wine from a pocket. 

Gerard’s eyebrows shoot up and his eyes give in his excitement at the sight. “Full package, huh?”

“Well,” Frank opens the metal lid of the relatively cheap thing, “you know Italians.”

“I don’t have wine glasses,” he says, but Frank just takes a swig straight from the bottle before handing it over, and Gerard takes it with a smile. He hums softly and smells the liquid before taking a sip. “Oh, boy. This is nice.” He drinks some more, and sets the bottle in the middle of the coffee table, equidistant to both of them. “I wonder what’s for dessert.”

“Oh. I didn’t --” he stops mid-sentence, realizing Gerard is giving him a  _ look, _ the corner of his mouth quircking up, and there it is again, Frank is blushing. “Jesus.”

“Amen,” he smiles and shoves some more pizza into his mouth, and closes his eyes in appreciation again. “This is seriously the best pizza I’ve ever had.”

“And you thought I had no talent,” Frank brags, drinking from his wine. “Eat your heart out, exorcist. And my pizza.”

Huge green irises stare at him for a moment. He cleans his mouth with a napkin. “You made this. Of course you did.”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I do,” Gerard tries to lean back, but there’s nothing but a TV set poorly balanced on a crate box behind him, and he sighs. “I believe you’re really good at anything you put some effort in. In fact, I believe most people will find you annoying, in a  _ is-there-anything-this-bitch-can’t-do _ kind of way.”

Frank takes his words and thinks for a moment. He’s not wrong, and what gets under Frank’s skin isn’t even being so blatantly exposed, but the fact that Gerard seems to know a lot and how often he gets it right. “Well,” he shrugs, and drinks a little bit of wine. They look at each other for a second, and now that the food buffer is over, Frank supposes he needs to do what he came here to do, and it’s not an easy task. His heart flutters just slightly and he takes another drink before passing the bottle back to Gerard. He fishes his cigarettes from his jeans pocket and signals to the window. “Do you mind?”

Gerard gets up quickly and takes the bottle with him. “Come with me,” he says, and walks into the apartment. Frank follows him down a narrow corridor and he can see the door to the kitchen, and then farther in, there’s the bedroom door. He’s not sure what to make of it for a second - there’s a large bed, crisp sheets and the overwhelming scent of dessert everywhere, a canvas propped up in a corner, piles of books and comics. Gerard walks in and, as Frank stops by the door, he turns around. 

“I - wh. What...” Frank says, and he can’t stop looking at the bed.  _ Get an exorcism, suck some dick. _

“Frank,” Gerard calls, and finally gets the other man to look at him. “There.” And he points to a large glass window - a door, actually. 

“Oh,” Frank stutters, feeling stupid. “A balcony.”

“Eh, well,” Gerard opens the door and there’s barely any depth to it, but there’s a rail against which he leans in before crossing his arms. “It’s hardly a  _ balcony _ , and the sight is kinda shit, but yeah. But,” he adds, and there’s that smirk again, “you seem so fascinated by the bed, I’ll take you there, too, if you want.”

Frank rolls his eyes, and the  _ innuendos, _ he swears. “Yeah, then what?”

Gerard shrugs. “Fuck you into next Sunday, maybe? You said you were into choking.”

“You know what,” Frank walks closer and fits himself by Gerard’s side, “you have a big mouth for someone who even  _ smells _ like vanilla.”

Gerard gasps, his mouth comically open. “Wounded!” He turns around and rests his forearms against the rail, and gladly accepts the cigarette Frank hands him, already lit. “Thank you.” They both take deep drags before he says, “I’m sorry.”

“About?” The sight from there really is shit - just a whole lotta concrete and artificial lights. But there’s a skyline, at least. “Being an insufferable prick with no manners?”

“Yeah, actually.” He picks at his nail, cigarette dangling from one side of his mouth - the one that he barely opens to speak, Frank reckons. “I guess… it’s like, a coping mechanism for work, sort of. I just forget to turn it off sometimes.” He glances at Frank briefly, and his eyes seem as bright as the lamp post across the street. “I don’t mean to be a pig.”

Frank snorts, and bumps his shoulder lightly against Gerard’s. “It’s okay. I think you’re growing on me,” he exhales his smoke, “like an itch.”

Gerard takes his words with a smile, and then, as an afterthought, he adds, “I could grow on you, alright.” He gets a giggle out of Frank, and passes him the wine. Once they have established their truce, they manage to smoke silently for a minute, and it feels good. Peaceful, somehow. 

“I might be starting to believe you,” Frank finally admits, his voice small. “About, you know.”

“Mm.” He rubs at his scarred hands mindlessly. “Is it going the way I said?”

Frank sighs and flicks away his smoke, and turns around to lean back against the railing. He crosses his arms and considers the question before answering. “It had been,” he starts, “and I locked myself up in my house for a few days, which made me realize they couldn’t touch me. Only nightmares and the usual stuff, but no touching.”

Gerard hums noncommittally and pretends not to have dropped by Frank’s apartment and done a shitload of things to his door. From the outside. For protection. Which worked, but he decides to keep it to himself nonetheless. “You said  _ it had been,”  _ he observes. “What changed?”

“I went to work today.” He turns on his side, his hip against the railing. Gerard’s cigarette is almost down to the filter, he notices, and the night chill is making him cold. “I think my boss had been protecting me all along, maybe. She’s like… wiccan or something.”

“I met her,” Gerard puts his cigarette out on an ashtray Frank hadn’t seen and signals them to go inside. “I thought so, too. About her protecting you.”

They walk together back into the house - Frank tries not to look at the bed, but fails, - and when they get to the living room, they sit down on the couch. Frank is still cradling the small bottle, and takes a long sip before handing it over to Gerard again. He leans back and makes himself comfortable, being quickly engulfed in the cozyness of the warm room, his full stomach, the soft worn cushions and that ice cream smell that followed Gerard around. It takes him a moment to remember what he was saying, and he finally continues. “Anyway, uh. Tierney did something to me today. I told her about all of it and she did this… ritual on me, I don’t know.” He drags his pendant necklace from under his shirt and shows it to Gerard. “She gave me this.”

Before he knows, Gerard is leaning over him. It’s just an instinctive movement to be able to look at the little jar pendant, he knows, but suddenly his heart is stomping on his chest. The proximity allows Frank to feel the warmth and smell coming from the other man, and when his breath tickles Frank’s fingers, it sends shivers up his arms, down his spine. He hasn’t been intimate with anyone in… maybe ever, he thinks. He touched and was touched quite often, and all of the things attached to that, but there was no real  _ intimacy.  _ Now, he felt exposed and vulnerable in the most delicious ways, and his body responded quickly, which made him clear his throat and finally Gerard realized he was hovering. 

“Sorry,” he says, drawing back. “I don’t know a lot about her craft,” he admits, sounding defeated. “I do however recognize some things in that jar, and it looks like a banishing spell, alright. Is it working?”

“Yeah,” he says without thinking, and realizes it’s true. “It, uh…. It kind of took the volume down a notch.”

Gerard grins, showing his tiny teeth. The range of his expressions is amazing, Frank thinks. He sometimes looks focused, sometimes dangerous. Sometimes adorable, like now.  _ Fuck’s sake, _ Frank thinks, and closes his eyes. 

“She has some amazing potential,” Gerard muses, as though he was considering hiring her. “Think she’d be up for a coffee some time?”

“So you can charm her with your swine manners?” Frank laughs, but doesn’t open his eyes. “She’d  _ hex you into oblivion,” _ he uses her own words, delighted at the thought. He feels Gerard flick his wrist, and lets his head fall sideways and opens his stingy eyes. He’s getting sleepy really fast. 

“I wanted to learn from her, actually.” He drinks the last of the wine slowly, holding the bottle with elegant fingers. His forearms are full of thin scars and the light makes his profile look somehow buttery, like he’s a painting and not a real human being. Frank commits the image to memory. 

“You have very unique, symmetrical features,” he says, quoting Gerard. He didn’t really mean to say that out loud, though, and blames it on the wine. On cue, he yawns heavily. 

“You’re drunk,” Gerard says. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“ _ ‘M not _ drunk,” Frank protests weakly, and he’s  _ not,  _ but he’s definitely really close to crashing. He startles when Gerard grabs his legs and throws them on the couch, getting him into a fully lying position with so much ease it’s scary. No regards for personal space whatsoever, Frank thinks. Gerard could definitely get rid of bodies if he wanted. “Whatcha doing,” he mutters, too cozy to care. 

Gerard doesn’t answer. He throws the knitted quilt from the back of the couch over Frank and even tucks it at his sides. “Good night, Frank,” he says, and then touches his face, mutters something inaudible in another language, and leaves. Frank drifts off before the lights are out.

  
  
  
  
  


‡

The room is elegantly decorated in expensive furnishings that are somehow a bit old-fashioned, but he likes it that way. He toes off his leather shoes and untucks his crisp linen shirt. His shoulders ache and his head is pounding, and he wonders, for the umpteenth time, why did She create him in  _ their  _ image. Well, his Earth version, anyway. 

_ Mockery _ , he thinks. She did it out of spite.

He rubs his forehead, trying to remember what he had to get done before the day ended, but the need to hear about his other project keeps nagging at him. “Belial,” he summons, not raising his voice. She appears by his side with a soft clack. 

“Hello, dear,” she greets with a small smile. Her lips are as red as her red lingerie, but it seems a bit smudged at the bottom. He takes her in with tired eyes. 

“Did I interrupt anything important?” He asks, and holds his left hand with his right one, twisting his tired wrist. 

“Not at all.” She smiles and steps closer, bringing her small hands to the bottom of his shirt. She undresses him and he allows it; first the shirt and then his trousers, and he sits on an ornate sofa so she can pull them off his ankles and remove his socks. When he’s fully naked she climbs on top of him, straddling his thighs, her own underwear still on, red from stockings to choker. 

“You look nice,” he grants, sliding his hands up her thighs absent-mindedly. “Do you have any news for me?”

“Lou,” she sighs, “can we talk about this later?”

“No,” he answers a little too quickly, and she seems crossed. He sure doesn’t want to make her upset again. “Please tell me, I promise I won’t be mad.” 

She scans his face for traps, and he tries to put on his most angelic expression. “I want you to fuck me into the floor,” she warns. He pulls her closer, circling her tiny waist with his long arms and burying his face in her neck, mumbling a response under a nod. “Fine,” she says, feeling his lips against her ear. “The witch shielded him with something the boys can’t break.” Lucifer bites her neck and she rolls her head back, twisting her fingers in his hair, and automatically she rolls her hips. “I’ve been meaning to -  _ ungh _ \- go there myself, but he’s holed up with the exorcist.”

Lucifer freezes for a split second, and although he immediately resumes his rough kissing of Belial’s collarbone, the whole room heats up with his annoyance. “Mm.”

“I’ll catch him when he steps out,” she says, her voice breaking. She can feel her hips bruising under his touch and his hardness reaching up to her lace. He’s intoxicating. “And I’ll do everything myself with Gerard, too.”

“Thank you,” Lucifer whispers against her lips, and kisses her. He brings her impossibly closer, until she’s pressed flush against him, and he waits until she’s almost delirious with want before he speaks. “I want you fully dedicated to this until it’s done, baby.”

She opens her eyes to that, and leans back to look at his face. “Why?” She glares at his lipstick-smudged lips. “To get it over with faster and you can see  _ Her _ ?”

“No,” he lies calmly, and brings her back close with an arm around her waist again. He touches her face, his thumb on her chin. “So we can have some proper fun, love. How long has it been, huh?” Her eyes are wide and ruthless staring at his, and he slowly slides his thumb into her mouth. After a moment, she takes it, and her tongue laps around his digit, even though she looks just as lethal as a moment ago. “I’m done with settling for civil wars, Belial. You deserve better,” he smiles, and looks dead into her eyes, sliding his thumb out and smearing her lipstick. “You deserve a worldwide show, baby. Don’t you want it?”

“Yes,” she agrees, and her breathing is erratic. She twists her arms back and undoes her bra, which falls to the carpeted floor. She takes the man’s hands to her bare breasts, gasping as he squeezes lightly. “I do want that.”

“That’s why we need him.” 

She nods. “I’ll get him.” 

Lucifer smiles. He squeezes her breast again with one hand as the other one climbs up to her neck, and he closes his hand around her throat, squeezing lightly to bring her face closer. He puts his lips to her ears and says, “Good girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every word of encouragement from you guys has been amazing. Thank you! 
> 
> Things are to start unfolding faster. This is a bit of a slow burn. It turns to Hell, though. You'll see.


	5. start practising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visits sometimes bring answers, but also sorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I had to skip a week in updating. It's summer right now where I live, and I do have a toddler to tend to. Life offline got in the way. I tried to make it up to you with a super long chapter.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee is what wakes him up. Frank stretches slowly, his eyes still closed, and only when his feet hit the arm of the couch is that he remembers where he is. He opens his eyes to find sunlight filtered by a bunch of plants, tiny flecks of dust hanging over him. Voorhees is on the coffee table and seems to be watching him sleep, and even meows loudly when he realizes Frank has woken up, as though to warn his owner of the fact. 

Frank reaches out a hand and scratches the cat behind his ear, and yawns loudly as he sits up. He feels amazing. His body is well rested, his mind is silent, the room is just the right amount of warm and nothing threatens him. And there’s coffee. 

He could get used to this.

“Morning,” Gerard greets him, coming from the kitchen. He has a newspaper under his arm and two plates on his hands, which he balances poorly as he sits on the couch next to Frank. “Sleep okay?

“I did, actually,” he takes the plate Gerard hands him. It’s a stale donut and a large cup of black coffee, and both seem perfect. “Thank you.” 

“Mm,” is all Gerard says, gulping at his own mug. 

They eat in silence; Gerard reads the paper and Frank checks his phone. The coffee is good, too, and both of them have their feet up on the coffee table, mirroring each other’s actions, only Gerard is already fully clothed in black - he’s even wearing a vest and a tie, like he’s 80. Voorhees climbs on the couch and sits in between the two of them, curling himself into a neat little bun and settling for a nap. 

There are a few texts from Tierney; some of them are links she sent for him to read and a whole bunch of them is just her asking if he’s alright. And if he’s already _biblically acquainted_ with Gerard. Frank smiles and sneaks a photo of him - from his profile, focused on his paper, coffee mug close to his mouth - and sends it to her. She answers him immediately.

**Tierney Boss**

_doing crosswords on the morning after :’) hubby material_

**Me**

_lol you wish. you should see him pinning me down walls_

**Tierney Boss**

_stfu don’t trigger me it’s too early to be h_

_he has sadboy energy. i love it. is he a cancer?_

“What’s your zodiac sign?” Frank asks, not even bothering to explain. 

Gerard frowns a little at his paper, but doesn’t look at Frank. “I don’t remember. Why?”

“You don’t know your sign?” he says in a tone that makes him realize, a little late, that he’s been hanging out with Tierney way too much. “When’s your birthday?”

“April ninth,” Gerard answers and scribbles something down - actually doing the crossword puzzles. 

Frank starts typing _Aries_ into his phone but stops halfway. “Wait. No, seriously,” he insists, “when is it?”

Finally, Gerard looks at him. He says, slower this time, “April ninth.”

“Why don’t you wanna tell me?” Frank huffs, “Tierney’s asking, it’s nothing important, she’s just into that kind of thing.”

Staring at Frank like he’s grown a second head, Gerard says, “I was born on the ninth of April at Clara Maas almost thirty two years ago. Want my birth certificate?”

Frank blinks. Twice. “But that’s today.” He looks back at his phone, checking the date. “Yeah, that’s today.”

“Oh.” Gerard pouts, tilts his head, and his eyes dart around for a second, apparently trying to figure out the date. “Right. Well,” he sighs, and gets back to his paper. “Happy birthday to me.”

It’s all a bit too much of a coincidence, but stranger things have happened, Frank thinks. Although Gerard is trying to play cool, there’s a hint of something in his eyes. Sadness, or disappointment, and that’s what makes Frank believe he’s not joking about it. He bites his lip, thinking about what on Earth he’s doing, but he does end up saying, “Wanna grab a drink later? To celebrate.” He offers a small smile when the man looks back at him. “I’m buying.”

Gerard grins, all teeth. “Yes. See? I’m growing on you.”

Frank kicks him in the shin, but says nothing, and goes back to his phone and coffee. They share a few more minutes of silence until Gerard folds his paper and gets up, and Frank realizes he’s about to leave the house. “Where are you going?” 

“Work,” he says, simply. “Back to where I’ve been spending the past three days. A resilient little shit, I’ll give him that,” he muses, putting on a worn blazer - apparently he doesn’t own another coat apart from the one he lent Frank. “But I’ll crack him today. Shouldn’t take long.”

“I’m not even gonna ask,” Frank replies, putting on his shoes and ‘his’ coat. “So I… well, I had meant to talk to you about all of my, y’know, stuff, but. I guess… maybe at dinner? Or some other time, if you don’t wanna talk shop on your birthday, I mean yeah, that’s better. Right?”

Gerard opens the door to him, and he’s smiling way too brightly. “Is it _dinner_ now?” He waits until Frank is squirming between him and the doorframe, and adds, “Dinner implies dessert.”

‡

Fifteen minutes, one cigarette and eight sexual innuendos later, Frank is home. Turns out Gerard has a car, and a pretty cool one at that, which he says he inherited from his grandmother, and he drives Frank home. “I don’t drive it much,” he explains, “not to work, at least. Sometimes I finish shifts in too much of a bad shape to be driving. But today should be alright.”

They end up agreeing that Gerard will pick him up at six, and they’ll order in, and they’ll stay at Gerard’s house instead of going to a bar so Frank can feel okay. They also agree that Frank can spend the night, again, so they’ll talk about his problems the next morning and leave the night just for hanging out. “FYI, I take birthdays very seriously,” he says, and he means it. 

“FYI, this is sounding more and more like a date,” Gerard teases. This time, Frank raises him, and winks at him from the passenger seat, and pretends not to notice how flustered the other man gets. 

When Gerard parks in front of Frank’s building, they sit in silence for a minute, and Frank is kind of uncertain on how to move without seeming weird, so he doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at Gerard quitely, taking in his stupid face and his baby eyes, and he says, “Happy birthday, Gerard.” For once, there’s no smart reply; only a silent smile that feels a little bit like a secret.

From the minute he steps out of the car until he reaches his apartment, Frank hears the distinct nasty buzz he usually gets, but it’s very toned down from usual. He can feel the weight of Tierney’s necklace hanging from his neck, and he holds it tight when he’s in the elevator, putting his intentions into it, like she instructed. He thanks the thing for having his back and asks it to continue to do that, please and thank you. He doesn’t even feel stupid doing so.

By the time he crosses his threshold, any ill energy is so faint he can easily forget it’s even there. He showers and lies in his bed to dry, and calls Tierney to properly fill her in, and also to ask what kind of cake he should make. 

“Chocolate,” she says without missing a heartbeat. “He’ll like chocolate. Aries are babies. They throw tantrums, too. Put on an attitude when they feel vulnerable.”

“That’s not very flattering,” Frank wonders out loud, “or encouraging.”

“Shut the fuck up, you’re a Scorpio,” Tierney barks back, accent thick. “You big, horny baby.”

Frank pretends to gasp. “You’re a Scorpio too!”

“That I am,” she tuts, sounding pensive. 

After he’s dressed, Frank heads out. He goes to four different places - three clothing stores before he finds what he wants, and one grocery store where he buys a whole lot of ingredients for his afternoon of baking. 

He feels fine the whole time.

‡

The large canopy bed is covered in burgundy silk sheets. Loads of pillows are scattered around, and they’re all charmed to smell of Her. It’s not the same as the real thing, though. 

Lucifer crosses his arms under his head and stares at the ceiling. He had been trying, for quite a few minutes, to pleasure himself. His mind kept racing, though, and he eventually gave up on it, leaving his bits to soften under the sheets. 

He thinks of a time when She loved him, apparently more than She had ever loved anyone else - though She would deny it, should someone ask. Of course She did; She was supposed to be fair and equally loving towards all of Her creations. 

But She loved him better. He knew it. He could feel it in the way She looked at him, and smiled at him, and teached him everything there was to know. She made him knowledgeable and powerful, increasingly so as time passed, as he was meant to be right by Her side at all times. He was supposed to help, to rule, almost an equal to Her, the Almighty. His life should’ve been perfect. 

But it wasn’t, now, was it?

Lucifer kicks away his sheets and gets up from the bed. He reaches for some underwear and fetches a cigarette, lighting up quickly with a flick of his hand and walking on to smoke by the window. His view was not of clouds or the gardens, as it once had been. It was of concrete buildings, cars and disgusting, petty little mortals. He hates mortals. They were the reason he was trapped in that shit existence, after all. 

He did have a plan to change that, though. If he could just _talk to Her…_

He hears a quick knock on the door, and he knows who it is. “Come in,” he calls, and leans against the window rail, his long bare legs crossed at the ankles. 

Belial walks in, shutting the door quietly behind her. She’s in black, today, he notices; only her lips and nails are the usual red. She walks quietly towards him, and he knows, from that, that it’s bad news. Sitting elegantly on an armchair by the window, she licks her lips before saying, “It’s gotta be you.”

He raises his eyebrows and blows out some smoke. “To?”

“Reach Frank,” she sighs, looking at the floor. “He’s out of the den, but he’s shielded solid. Not even I can get to him.”

“God’s sake, Belial,” he mutters through his teeth, his voice close to a growl. “That’s skipping a step.”

“It _won’t do_.” She looks up at him, and he realizes she’s gathering up the nerve to say her next words. “Your plan has failed, Lucifer. There won’t be Hell for him until there is.” She silences for a minute, her body tight, like she expects retaliation. There is none, however, and she continues, her voice smaller. “It was a good plan,” she amends, “but we didn’t count on Gerard. Somehow he managed to lock me out from Frank, too. I don’t know what he’s done.”

Exhaling heavily, Lucifer is obviously very close to fuming, but he holds his temper. “How exactly,” he starts in a slow cadence which does nothing to make him less threatening, “do you suggest we make him beg for me to take him, if he’s not in excruciating pain?”

“Greed,” she murmurs. “We give him something to covet, to love, and then we take it from him.” Her rotten scent emanates from her as she seems to grow warm with the unusual suggestion, which is probably making her burn in shame.

Frowning, Lucifer vanishes his cigarette and crosses his arms, the dark one contrasting heavily with the immaculate one. “I’m not sure I follow, dear.”

She throws her hands up, slightly losing her composure for a second. It’s usually amusing to see her so nervous and obedient, but not this time. “Lou, you - it’s not working our way. Making him wither in pain and fear until he begs for a way out, any way out, is not going to happen. Not now, not ever, unless we end Gerard, and we know better than to try killing off Ways, as they seem to always find their fucking way back.” 

“Good God, calm down,” he puts his hands up. “What _do_ you suggest we do, then?”

“Well, isn’t it the basics?” She looks up at him and shrugs. “Mortals are corruptible. We must corrupt him.” 

“ _Frank_ is not corruptible, he is barely a mortal,” Lucifer says in a tired tone. He did have to say that to Belial hundreds of times in the past decades. 

“He might be, if he has something to lose.”

Lucifer blinks slowly. “Oh.”

“They already fancy each other, you know that? Of course they do. I bet it’s _Her_ doing,” she adds with disdain. “We might not be allowed to kill off the moron, but Frank doesn’t know that.”

“Mm,” Lucifer mumbles around a thumb. “If we make them hole up a little more, and encourage affection…”

“We get leverage,” Belial finishes the thought for him. “You’re going to have to show your face, though.”

Lucifer nods slowly. “Where are they now?”

“Gerard’s struggling a level two,” she says more calmly, seeming to finally relax. “I could pop in for an upgrade. Frank’s baking him a birthday cake.”

“Good grief,” he scrunches up his face. He sighs heavily and stands up straighter, smoothing down his chest like he’s wearing a creased invisible shirt. “We’re going to have to think this through a little better, though. It needs to properly work, this time.”

“Sure.” Belial takes the hand Lucifer offers her, and she even yelps a little when he pulls her close, swiping her off her feet before throwing her onto the bed. She knows what’s coming - her reward. _He’s pleased with her_. And even though it nags at the back of her mind that she’s been helping him get closer to the thing she hates the most, and even though the pang of jealousy threatens to melt her guts out, and even though she remembers that all of the power he grants her is a mere artifice to distract everyone from the fact that she will obey him whether she wants to or not, she still wants her reward, and she smiles widely against his lips when they come.

‡

It’s a sunny afternoon, and Gerard sits on a patio chair. He’s in the house’s backyard, an expresso in one hand and a cigarette in the other. After a few hours of an exorcism that never seemed to end, the subject had fallen into a deep sleep, and Gerard took it as a cue to take a break. 

It’s a wealthy family, for once, and the person he’s trying to exorcise is a wife and mother-of-three. The woman, once beautiful, had become a sullen mess, and her skin looked like sandpaper under a cobweb of dark hair. She kept clicking her teeth and rolling her eyes back, flickering, and even he got a little creeped out by it eventually. The rest of the family had left, the father worried enough to call every twenty minutes, offering larger sums, but unable to be present as he had to care for his children. Gerard is home alone with the housekeeper, a haitian woman with a sing-song accent and no fear for the presence of evil in the house. She knew her ways around that, and Gerard was very grateful for her and her constant offering of expressos and muttered prayers. 

When he finishes his smoke and his coffee, he leans back on the chair and tilts his face towards the sun. It’s warm and he thinks of Frank, sleeping peacefully on the couch, his olive skin glowing, his red lips, the ring around the left corner. 

His heart falters a little with worry. He’d seen that before: the talent and ease that had blessed him all the way up to the point it didn’t matter anymore; the endless chase, the hurt, the fear, the agony, the tears and the despair. He had watched his own brother shift from being inexplicably popular and secretly disturbed into being… well, dead. 

It had taken Gerard a while, back then. His skepticism had refrained him from believing anything other than what you could figure out in a hospital. When that kept failing, Elena had arranged other procedures, but Gerard didn't support her. The last thing he had said to his grandmother, in a drunk, uncontrollable rage, is that Mikey was going to die and take her with him. And then he stormed off, leaving his family and the priest alone in the basement with his brother.

When he came back, she was dead. Mikey killed her during the worst of the episode, and then laughed at Gerard with a thousand voices as he thanked him for the brilliant idea. 

Gerard only really saw his brother one more time after that. Though he stayed by his side for weeks, the real Mikey had only managed to break his curse for a few minutes, and he told Gerard to fight - not for him, but for others, as he had already figured out how to escape, even though he didn’t deserve it after what he allowed that thing to do to their grandmother. “If you have any faith in me,” Mikey had said, his eyes burning Gerard’s - they had the same eyes, he always heard - “have faith in everything else.”

Mikey had died shortly after. His mother insisted on an open casket for his service, and Gerard couldn’t seem to get his eyes off his bony structure. His ashy skin was spotless, unlike it had been for months, sores turning green all over - they'd vanished with Mikey’s last breath. But he was skin and bone, his hair had fallen off in patches, and his lips were so chapped even the wax they applied to the corpse didn't help much. Donna had rambled in her Xanax-induced speech, and talked about how her youngest boy had been named after an Archangel and he should be by God’s side, now. 

Gerard shudders under the sunlight. The similarities of what happened to Mikey and what seemed to be happening to Frank were uncanny. He still needs some more details to know for sure what they’re dealing with, but something in his gut tells him they’re fighting the same fight. 

The fact that he’s disturbingly attracted to Frank isn’t helping. Gerard feels so anxious and awkward around him, the best he can do to not embarrass himself completely is the same he does at work: he puts on a persona. He sneers, glares and makes dirty jokes on autopilot, when really his mind is going _hislipsohboyhiseyes_ and he can barely even think straight. It seems like a sick joke, maybe, which sounds exactly like his life. A sick, humourless joke. 

“Mister, she’s awake,” he hears the housekeeper say from the patio glass doors. He acknowledges her with a nod and a small smile, and slowly gathers up his things to go back inside. 

He tries to push Frank to the back of his head. It was off limits. Not only was Frank way out of his league, there was also the fact that by the end of the day, he was a professional, and not one to indulge on his secret fantasies brewed after a decade of loneliness - and a tattoo kink, if he’s being honest. And a hazel droopy eyes kink, and also a kink for stupid giggles and just _hands_.

He is so fucked. 

“Thank you, miss,” he says as the housekeeper takes his cup, and walks up the stairs. 

When Gerard opens the bedroom door, he freezes. 

He had left the woman bound, her skin blistered and her eyes pitch black. Now, she was none of it. Her ebony skin glowed on her sharp features, her eyes a burning gold. She was sitting up straight, her long arms still gently tied to the bed. She smiled when she saw Gerard, and without context, it almost seemed like she was someone who loved him and felt happy that he finally arrived. He knows that look. “Come in, darling,” says her steady voice in a posh accent, and then he knew, he absolutely fucking _knew_.

“Belial?” He swallows, and she smiles fondly. 

“Long time no see.” She tugs slightly at the bounds on her wrists - the wrists of the woman she was violating - and makes a little sound in the back of her throat. “Mind if we get rid of these?”

Gerard closes the door behind him. He’s trying to keep his knees from shaking, and leans against the wood. The last thing he wants is to have a Commander loose in a room with him, but it’s not as if denying her would do any good. She could have the whole place down in a second. “Please,” he says with a smile, and hopes to God he’s good enough at faking. 

“Always a gentleman.” She vanishes the chains and throws her legs from the bed, making herself sit in a more elegant posture. She glances calmly at her reflection in the mirror that covers the wardrobe doors, and seems to be happy with what she sees. It was, indeed, a very beautiful woman she was wearing. She turns her gaze back to Gerard, who still stares from across the room. “You seem upset, dear.”

He wrinkles his nose. “You never called me back.”

She laughs, a deep belly laugh. “You know,” she points a finger at him, “when you’re not being absolutely infuriating, you can be quite fun.” She looks at him head to toe, and then again. “Shame. We could have a torrid... something, if you weren’t so uptight.”

“I’m afraid my proclivities wouldn’t suit you,” he replies with a head tilt. _I hate you, you disgraceful cocksucker bitch, you killed my brother and I want to smash your fucking face in_. “I’d be up for a try out, though, if you are.”

“Nah,” she waves her hand, and her smile falls slowly, as her eyes become sharper. “I wouldn’t get in the way of you and your Frankie.”

Gerard’s stomach does a full backflip, and he falters. “The fuck do you want,” he spits through gritted teeth. He knows it should be better to play along; there is nothing he could do to stop her from doing whatever is it she wants. After Mikey, she had crossed his path a few times. One time, in a good mood, she even explained that her employees had been trying to kill the person in that bed, and Gerard getting in the way was a real pain in her ass because then _she_ had to come and do it herself, if he could please take a step back, thank you very much. 

Everytime she showed up, someone died. 

Gerard doesn’t want his temper to take that mother from her three children. So he needs, by all means, to keep his mouth shut. If Belial wants him dead, he’ll be dead. But she never seemed to do so, and he has to fight for the innocent woman in that bed. He even lets go of the cross he had been gripping inside of his pocket. It wouldn’t help, anyway. 

“Now don’t be rude, Gerard,” she chides, glancing mindlessly at her nails before turning her eyes to him again. “You know I hate it when you’re rude.”

 _Fuck you you fucking bitch whore from Hell._ "Forgive me. You were saying?"

She smiles. "Now, I understand you and him are becoming quite friendly, hmm?" Even though she's terrifying and revolting, her poise carries through any vessel she might be possessing. "I endorse it, honestly. You need to get laid, baby." 

"I'll do my best," he lies, trying to keep his head high. "What do you want with him?" 

"Oh, _that_ ," she raises her eyebrows. "I'm afraid I'm not privy to that bit."

 _Bullshit_ , he thinks. He knows damn well who she is. "Shame. I hope you don't mind me keeping him for a while."

"Absolutely! I love me some good old sodomy." She puts her hands together, looking almost angelic. "I truly appreciate you, you know? So predictable."

He tries not to huff. "Pardon my French, but why the fuck are you here?"

She shrugs in a giddy manner, her mouth a thin smirk. “I came to wish you a happy birthday, is all. Come, sit.” She pats her hand over the bed next to her, and Gerard can’t help but to hesitate. His heart is hammering in his chest. He’s absolutely terrified of Belial. Somehow she can convey such filth and despair, Gerard thinks he might have a glimpse of what Frank’s life was like. And though he wants to help that poor woman, he really really wants to help her, he still can’t bring himself to move his legs and follow the orders. After a moment of hesitation, Belial’s smirk becomes a glare. “ _Now_ , Gerard.”

He drags himself closer and sits on the bed next to her, his eyes defiantly holding her gaze the whole time. “You haven’t been around for a while,” he observes, a line of thought starting to take shape inside of his head. “Busy at the shop?”

“Oh very,” she smiles, and lays a hand on his thigh like they’re old friends. She reeks of sulfur, and it takes Gerard all he’s got not to scrunch up his nose in disgust. “You know how it is. Cycles in, cycles out.” 

“And Frank’s one of them,” he risks, and for the briefest moment, a faint glint of panic goes through her eyes, but it’s gone in a second. You could almost miss it, but Gerard knew her lot. “Like Mikey was.”

“Ah, _that_. No, love, that was different.”

Gerard can feel his heart racing so fast his ears are starting to ring. He had lost so many nights of sleep trying to figure this out, he had to help himself from spilling out. “What’s different? Aren’t you personally handling Frank, too?”

“Mm,” she smiles, almost like a pleased teacher. “I am. But Frank has a purpose.”

“And Mikey didn’t.”

“ _No,_ Gerard, Mikey wasn’t our doing,” she sighs, and the hand on his thigh goes a little warmer. “Well, he was, but it served us very little and it didn’t come from me, if you must know,” she says with so much disdain her voice nearly melts. “It was mostly a.... Whim.”

Gerard swallows. His brother died a horrible death because of a whim. He wants to kill her, he wants to wrap his hands around her throat and kill her sixty-six times over and then stomp on her dead skull. “I don’t follow.”

It takes her a moment to come back to him - she had very clearly drifted into a very unpleasant place in her memory. But when she looks back at him, she smiles. “God works mysterious ways.” She pats his thigh once, and slides back in the bed, leaning against the cushions. “Now, Gerard, I have a deal for you.”

 _Shove it up your cursed fucking ass_. “Do tell,” he forces a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“I’ll leave, soon, and let this cute little thing live to feed her snotty little brats.”

What could she want in return? He doesn’t even want to know. “In exchange for…?”

She smiles, her hands crossed on her lap. “You, dear. Only a few moments of your time. I just miss you, really.” She offers him a smile, and somehow, even though the woman on the bed is dark and her nightgown is a silky white, Gerard gets a glimpse of alabaster skin and something red. “Mind if we, how do you say it?, _hang out_ a bit?”

 _Frank_. He was supposed to go to Frank in less than an hour. A coldness takes hold of his guts, and he knows exactly what she’s doing, but he has no choice. If he wants to live to see this through, he better indulge her. “I’d love to. What would you suggest we do?”

She looks to her side, where a Bible rests on the nightstand. It flies onto Gerard’s chest, hitting him with a dull thump. “Read for me a bit, would you, dear?” She leans back, and Hell fire flickers in her eyes before she closes them. “A little Apocalypse will do me some good.”

‡

Frank looks around his living room. His backpack is ready with a couple changes of clothes (and Gerard’s gift, and a fancy bottle of whiskey), the cake is secured in a plastic container, he’s dressed and hopefully looking good. He pats his pockets for his wallet and his smokes, and then glances at his wristwatch, which shows there’s still an hour to go before Gerard arrives. 

He decides to just sit on the couch to wait. His day ended up being a little frantic, with the shopping and the baking, and he hasn't had enough time to just sit down and think. If he tries to empty his mind, he can still feel the little buzz of evil thoughts filtering through, and it tugs at his gut, but it's perfectly tolerable. He grabs Tierney’s pendant and rolls it around his fingers, thinking about why he never gave her much credit for her craft. It's easier to get on high horses and dismiss people's beliefs, he supposes, like he had done with Gerard's, too.

The thing is, Gerard seems to think Frank is some kind of evil magnet or the spawn of Satan or some shit, and that's not easy to digest. Frank hopes he's wrong, for obvious reasons, but so far everything he said had been right. Frank still needs to explain his situation in full detail, and maybe then they'll realize it's not that bad. He can't be the Devil's golden ticket. The idea is too ludicrous, even for Frank. 

And there’s something else, too. Frank wants things to go smooth, for once, so he can maybe, just maybe, live a little. He can’t quite put his finger on the reason, but there’s just something about Gerard. It’s more than sheer physical attraction, and his green eyes have been haunting Frank’s thoughts since they met. It’s ridiculous, and too fast to be real, and maybe a little silly, but God, he could use some silly. Some light, silly little crush to eat him up instead of being doomed all of the time.

He's not sure how long he has been sitting there brooding, but when the doorbell rings, he leaps to his feet in a second. He grabs his backpack and the cake, but when he opens the door, a smile on his face, it's not Gerard that he sees.

There's a man. A very tall, slim man, in a crisp white shirt. His eyes are full of joy when he looks at Frank, almost loving, and he's smiling. "Hello, Frank," he says slowly, “it’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

The man offers a hand, and Frank takes it without really thinking - he has manners, after all. But when he does so, an unexpected wave of tingling pushes through his veins, up his arm and fills his entire body with a sensation of ease and well-being. He almost drops the cake, and when he opens his eyes the man is grinning at him. 

“Who are you?” he asks softly. _He’s an angel_ , says a voice in his head, and Frank can almost see a shimmer of light around him. He does look every bit angelic in his white shirt and soft blue eyes.

“I’m Lou,” the man says, “I was hoping we could have a quick chat, if I’m not interrupting?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Frank makes way for the man to step into the house, and notices he glances briefly at the threshold where Gerard’s neat scribbling decorated the wood with Latin. When the man - Lou - walks by, Frank can barely resist reaching out to touch him, he smells so damn _good_. “Can I get you anything?” 

“No, thank you,” he offers another smile, and sits down on the couch. His legs are so long his feet are under the coffee table, and Frank notices some ink on his left wrist. “I won’t take much of your time, for now.”

Frank doesn’t have an armchair, so he just puts the cake and the backpack on the small dining table in the corner of the room and pulls up a chair. He sits and looks at the man expectantly, and somewhere his brain registers he just let a stranger into his house, but he doesn’t dwell on it. “Well, erm,” he links his tatooed fingers, trying not to fidget. “Can I help you?”

“Yes! Yes you can.” He flexes his hand, cracking his fingers loudly. “That’s why I’m here, really. We should talk terms.”

For a moment, Frank just looks at the man, his mouth agape - and then it hits him. It hits him so hard he falls off his chair; a tidal wave of ineffable pain, and evil grips him by the guts. Everything burns and his ears are bursting with the echo of shouting, his lungs are filled with hopelessness and he feels he’s about to drown. It’s the very worst moment of his life, and he knows, he just knows that he’ll do anything to make it stop. 

In a second, it does.

Frank heaves, all fours on the floor. The ghost of the pain he just experienced boils panic inside him, and he can’t bring myself to move. Steady hands come to his rescue, and he allows them to help him sit up. A glass of water is put into his hands and he holds it shakily, but it’s the touch of long fingers to his face that soothes him. Lou tilts his head up, and with a kiss to the forehead, his peace is restored. 

He blinks, confused, still slightly out of breath. Lou circles the table and sits across from him. He still shimmers slightly, like he has a halo of some sort, but for a moment, his eyes are no longer blue, but red and dancing like flames. 

“You’re the Devil,” Frank mutters. Fuck. _Fuck._ The ground might as well open and swallow him whole, he feels so fucked. 

“Now don’t be prejudiced,” Lou protests, pulling something from his ear that wasn’t even there a moment ago - a cigarette, and it’s lit, and he sticks it between his lips. Suddenly his white shirt doesn’t seem pure, but deliberate and misleading, just like his kind blue eyes. Frank had met his fair share of men just like that. “I prefer Morning Star, Son of Dawn. Sounds a bit more chipper, wouldn’t you say? But my maker named me Lucifer, and that is my name, and you _will_ use it respectfully.” 

“The fuck I will,” Frank barks back without thinking. His entire mindset changes in a second, and he’ll be damned if he’s to look down and take it from that narcissistic pompous prick. 

Lucifer glares at him for a moment, but his mouth quirks up. “That’s my boy, Frankie.”

“Just do it,” Frank says, and strangely thinks of Gerard. He’ll probably never get to eat his cake, and the frosting was a bitch to get into the right consistency, and Frank had felt so proud of it, thinking about how it would look like around his lips, his tiny teeth, and whether or not he’d have the guts to kiss the chocolate from his skin before bed. He thinks of Gerard, and longs for things he never had, and says “Just kill me already.”

“Kill you?” Lucifer scoffs, and takes the cigarette from his lips with long fingers. “Dear boy, your words wound me. I would never. It was me who insisted on creating you, after all.”

Frank is so, so very fucked.

“You see,” Lucifer goes on, “Power is a strange thing. How it surges, rises and attaches itself to things or fact or people. Funny little things, if you believe them enough, might just start behaving the way they’re expected to, and yield the power it’s attributed to them.”

Despite his racing heart, Frank tries to make his eyes as bored and dead as he can, and takes a sip of his water. He doesn’t say a word. 

“And well, all kinds of things start to take shape,” Lucifer continues, not minding Frank’s pretense. “Folklore. Religion. Witchcraft. Prophecies.” He brings his blue eyes to meet Frank’s. “She loves that sort of thing, you know. Power to the people, and all the nonsense.”

Frank puts his face in his hand. “You said you’d be brief.”

Lucifer laughs, his voice rumbling low like thunder. “You do take it after your father. You haven’t met him, have you? Lovely chap. I can arrange that, although he’s usually busy in the Old Lands.” He takes a drag from his smoke. “Your mama wasn’t the nicest though, was she, Frankie? She hated you. She cursed the very day she left the house and got raped, and she cursed your every breath, but she took it and fed you and raised you because she was a _God-fearing honest woman_.” 

Frank’s wrath boils so fast his glass breaks in his hand, but he doesn’t even flinch, even though his left hand starts bleeding. His tongue takes a full leap over his teeth before he speaks. “You either kill me right the fuck now or get the fuck out of my house.”

After studying him for a moment, Lucifer smiles. “As I said, I don’t mean to kill you. Your talents, Frank? It was me. Every nice thing you’ve ever had? All me. And trust me, they haven’t even begun - I can give you _anything_.” And then his smile goes cruder, a surreptitious, mean smirk. “I must admit the bad things were me, too. What you experienced just now? It was but a second. I could put you through it for eternity. And I’d make sure you wouldn’t go insane, just so you can live through every little bit of it.”

Frank exhales sharply. “Your point?”

“You’ve got a job waiting for you, sweetie.” He vanishes his cigarette and gets to his feet, smoothing his shirt. “I’m bored of petty nonsense, Frank. Go big or go home, and I intend to go big. You know,” he tilts his head. “Nukes. Cyber terror. Modern warfare. Famine. Apocalypse, etcetera.” Frank begins to try and say something, but Lucifer interrupts. “You have a sly mouth on you, don’t you, m’boy? Very persuasive. And you see… I’ll need that. A lot. That will be your job. Start practising.” 

Frank scoffs. “Or else?”

A harsh pull jerks Frank’s body forward, and the chain leaves a burn on his nape. He looks up to find Lucifer holding Tierney’s pendant. The small vial looks insignificant in his hands. “She’s a lovely little thot, isn’t she?” He breaks the glass between his fingers, its contents dropping softly on the wooden floor. “Your witchy friend. You think she can protect you? Hmm? From _me?_ Please. You think anyone can protect you? Memorized words and burning herbs? Don’t be daft, child. Get real.” He stares down at Frank’s terrified eyes, and his shimmer turns a little red, his voice tingling with metallic tones. “I will come and collect you. Whether I come bearing gifts or the head of everyone you love on spikes, is up to you. Now don’t push me, Frank. I’ve waited long enough.”

With a last deep breath, Lucifer straightens his spine and turns on his heels. He only looks back once, and winks at Frank, before closing the door behind him. 

As he does so, two things happen: first, a whoosh of wind and flames burn everything but the table Frank’s sitting on and the belongings on top of it. 

Second, and most importantly: he is, once again, feeling like complete and utter shit.

‡

Gerard watches the red numbers above the elevator in agony. Four. Three. “Come _on,”_ he grunts. It’s still a three. He gives up waiting and rushes to the staircase, climbing it on jumps of two steps at a time. 

He is forty-five minutes late. Belial kept him reading for what felt like ages, fire in her eyes as she watched Gerard peacefully, almost bored. He knew she meant to hold him there, and that was terrifying. She sure knew he had somewhere to be - and she sure knew where. She wanted to keep him from Frank, and God knows what had been happening in his absence. 

She had left without saying goodbye. In a minute, he was reading to her; in the next, a soft voice with a Southern accent started screaming in fear and asking who was he and why was he in her bedroom. Gerard had barely told the woman “You’ll be fine now, ma’am,” before running out and into his car. 

In the short time it took Gerard to arrive at Frank’s building, he couldn’t stop thinking about Belial’s _endorsement_ of something happening between them, and her comfort in Gerard’s said predictability. He didn’t have the time to dwell on it much, but the bottom line was: if for whatever reason their lot wanted Gerard and Frank to be together, that’s the last thing they should do.

He finally reaches Frank’s floor and rushes to the door of his apartment, knocking furiously as he gets there. “Frank?” He rings the doorbell frantically. “Frank!” There is no answer, but when he grabs the doorknob, it’s unlocked, and the door gently sways open for him. “Holy shit.”

The entire place was scorched black, and the stench of sulfur was revolting. The only color is Frank, sitting on a red chair, his dark green backpack on a table, next to a plastic container, a bottle of whiskey and a shit ton of blood. He is staring at the wall, lost in thought, his eyes dead. 

Gerard lurches himself in his direction. “Frank, hey, hey. Are you okay?” He kneels and grabs the man’s face, waking him from his daze. “Hey, talk to me.” He checks his pulse, his skin, his chest, his arms. It was his hand that was bleeding, but it seemed to have stopped already. He touches Frank’s face again, searching his eyes. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

Frank’s chin quivers for a second, and his eyes flood with tears. He throws himself at Gerard, his entire body trembling. “Oh God,” is all he says. “Oh God.” 

Gerard holds him tight, feeling his warm breath on his neck, heavy with whiskey. “Shh, it’s okay,” he lies, and his eyes dart around once more. “I’ve got you, it’s okay. Let’s get out of here.” Gerard helps him scramble to his feet. He shoves the bottle in the backpack, picks it up and turns to leave. Frank has the presence of mind to grab his plastic container, too, and they make their way out of there as fast as they can.

‡

The ride to Gerard’s apartment had been silent. Frank just sat there, feeling slightly better in his presence, but still with his evil antenna going full force, and his body wouldn’t stop shaking for a long time. Gerard had taken his hand then, only letting go to change gears every few minutes, but he held onto Frank and drew patterns on the back of his hand until he felt a little steadier again. 

When they finally close the door behind them, he can finally breathe. His unease is reduced to a dull buzz in the back of his mind, and the nausea subsides. Frank is still holding the plastic container, which he puts on the coffee table before he flops down on the couch. He watches as Gerard goes down the corridor with his backpack and then comes back holding a small duffle bag. He sits and opens the thing, which turns out to be a first-aid kit, and takes Frank’s wounded hand in his to start patching him up. 

“Hold on,” he says when Frank hisses. His hands are gentle. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and Frank wants to touch him there, trace the blue paths of the veins beneath his skin. “You want to tell me what happened?”

Frank really, really doesn’t. He feels exhausted and just… empty. Hopeless. Everything just hurt so much, and he couldn’t even escape. He wants to be filled and weighted down or else he was scared he might drift away. His entire body prickles with need and crave and he doesn’t even know what for.

“I made you a birthday cake,” he says after Gerard puts a large band-aid over his hand. He takes the plastic container from the table and removes the lid, displaying the perfect frosting on the Devil’s food cake he had made. It smells rich, and it seemed like a lifetime ago that he made it.

The look on Gerard’s eyes is pained and glossy. “You made me a cake,” he echoes, and offers a sad smile. “Thank you.”

Frank gets up quickly and walks into the kitchen, eager for something to do. He grabs a fork from the sink and paces back into the room, and he can’t stop thinking, he just can’t. Gerard is still sitting on the couch, staring at the cake like he has never seen one before. “Here,” Frank hands him the fork, “try it.”

Gerard does, carefully digging a small chunk, holding the fork with his skilled artsy fingers, and takes a bite. Frank keeps staring at his mouth as he chews, at the smudge of chocolate on his upper lip. “Fuck, this is good.” He takes another bite, and hums in appreciation, looking up at Frank. “This is the best cake I’ve ever had.”

And maybe Frank was stupid, or crazy, or both, but he musters up the cheek to do what he felt like doing. He takes the fork and the tupperware and sets them back on the table, turns back to Gerard and climbs on top of him, straddling his thighs. Green eyes go wide and stare at him in a slight panic, and Frank sticks his tongue out as he leans closer, and licks the chocolate from Gerard’s lips. 

The gasp he gets in response is everything it takes to end any restraint he might still have, and Frank takes his tongue from the outside to the inside of Gerard’s mouth and kisses him like there was nothing wrong at all. 

Strong hands come up Frank’s thighs, holding him in place, his own hands tangling into Gerard’s hair to tilt his head just the perfect angle. When he pulls on it a little, Gerard moans into his mouth and grinds up at him, sending sparks up Frank’s spine and his mind goes yes, _yes_ , this is it.

But then his mouth is gone, and Gerard pushes gently at Frank’s shoulders, keeping him away. “We can’t,” he says in a small voice. “We really, really can’t.”

“I know,” Frank admits, and he does, for his own reasons, even though he doesn’t know Gerard’s. But to Hell with it. “Please, Gerard,” he begs, and shoves his hands away, holding his face again. He puts their foreheads together, their noses touching, and presses his pants against the other man’s. “Please, I need you so much. Please. Just for today.” He kisses him, and Gerard doesn’t exactly kiss him back, but he doesn’t stop him, either. “It’s your birthday. Please. I need you to take me, please, just say yes.”

“Fuck,” Gerard grunts, and holds Frank by the throat before kissing him again. “Yes,” he mumbles against Frank’s lips, and the entire world fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for every comment and words of encouragement. I remind you English is not my first language and I'm sorry if I mispelled anything; I'll try and have someone help me with revisions later. I'm not only translating my original text but pretty much rewriting it, so I might get a bit carried away and distracted at times.
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/glasssmotion).


	6. leverage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up exactly where the last one ended.

It starts pouring outside, and Voorhees tries meowing a couple of times to indicate his empty bowl, but no sound reaches Frank’s ears. All he cares about is the low humming Gerard makes against his lips, or the possessive hisses that accompany his hands roaming through Frank’s body, and the growls deep down in his chest when he bites down on the neck of the man he’s been claiming as his. Frank is safe, anchored, and it’s everything he wanted, and he feels lightheaded as he allows Gerard to pull him impossibly close and ravish his lips. 

Still, he wants more, and he pulls off his shirt in a swift move, tossing it somewhere behind him. He can almost physically feel the weight of Gerard’s gaze, taking in his naked torso. And Frank knows he looks good - he picked his ink carefully and spent enough hours kicking the punching bag, and guys staring at him isn’t a novelty. But this… this is different. Frank realizes that he craved it, he had never wanted so much to feel desired by a specific person. And the look on Gerard’s eyes - those eyes that had been haunting him for weeks now - was of hunger, a lustful devotion that sends a shiver down Frank’s spine. Gerard looks completely debauched already, his hair disheveled, his cheeks a deep flush, his lips bitten and shiny. Frank wants to be ravished to the bone. 

He gets up to his feet, leaving Gerard alone on the couch, leaned back, his legs spread wide, the curve of his erection visible through the dark denim. Frank had found him peculiar earlier that morning, wearing a tie and a vest, which were still there, only rumpled and out of place. Now, though, it doesn’t look peculiar. It just looks plain hot, and Frank almost drops to his knees, but decides to keep to his plan and starts to unbuckle his belt. 

Gerard watches Frank unbuttoning his pants and brings a hand to his own, and he hisses as he palms himself roughly, trying to make his urge subside a bit, his other arm still draped over the back of the couch. He looks dangerous, and it’s perfect. His pupils are blown wide as he watches, and Frank’s skin prickles under his attention. He unzips his jeans and pushes them down slowly, and toes off his shoes and socks. He stands there in his white underwear, and his heart does a full backflip when Gerard sits up straight and reaches a hand out to grab him. Gerard pulls him closer by the waist, kisses around his navel, diving his tongue out and planting small bites on his skin. Frank watches, his breath quickening, and then feels Gerard’s hands cupping his ass and bringing him closer, and then there’s a hot, damp mouth on him through the cotton. 

Hooking his fingers under the wide elastic band, Gerard pulls Frank’s underwear down, just enough to set him free. He takes a deep breath and licks his lips, and circles the base of Frank’s cock with his pale fingers. Frank tangles his own fingers in the dark hair, and he’s looking directly into green eyes when Gerard sticks his tongue out and guides Frank into his mouth. 

“Oh God,” Frank pants out, and his eyes flutter shut for a second, but he opens them back. He wants to watch. Gerard oozes some kind of power, a fearlessness that Frank craves, and he briefly remembers being pinned down against a wall. Now, that man had his lips wrapped tightly around Frank’s cock, and yet, he was completely in control, and it’s the most erotic thing Frank has ever experienced, and his knees tremble uncontrollably. 

It all stops way too soon, and Gerard stands up. He circles Frank’s middle and pulls him closer, pressing their bodies flush, and holds Frank by the nape of his neck to kiss him again. His mouth tastes different, now, no longer of chocolate but of Frank, and it’s intoxicating. Frank’s toes are on top of Gerard’s shoes, and the fact that he is stark naked against someone who is fully clothed adds to his sensation of being deliciously vulnerable. Frank grips Gerard’s shoulder tightly, and though he’s only a couple inches shorter, he feels small and at Gerard’s mercy. They kiss unhurriedly but with intent, tasting each other, their lips wet and swollen, until Gerard turns them around and all but throws Frank back on the couch. 

Gerard runs his fingers through his hair. “You,” he says, his voice in a husky tone Frank had never heard before, “you’ll be the death of me.” He pulls on his tie and his collar, exposing his flushed chest, and he’s glistening with a thin layer of sweat. And then he shoves his sleeves up a little and goes down to his knees. Gerard hooks Franks legs around his shoulders and pulls him closer, angling his body in order to make all of him available and displayed. 

Frank throws his arms behind him, gripping the back of the couch, and his breath fails for a second when Gerard wraps his mouth around him again. His lips go up and down, slipping easily, and his tongue works wonders around and around. Frank can’t help but close his eyes and throw his head back, loud noises escaping his mouth, and he bites down on his pierced lip to try and suppress them. He feels Gerard’s hands exploring his sides, his chest, and then his face. Frank opens his eyes to look back down, and Gerard’s watching him, still hungry, a ghost of a smile somewhere, though his mouth is still busy sucking Frank’s cock. He brings two fingers to Frank’s lips, tracing them for a second before slipping them inside. Frank’s grateful for it, his own mouth yearning for something to suck on, and he takes Gerard’s fingers eagerly, lapping his tongue at the rough digits, which makes Gerard groan around his cock, and it’s almost too much. 

“Don’t come yet,” Gerard says, and it sounds like an order. He retrieves his mouth as well as his fingers, but only to bring both of them down, behind Frank. 

“Yes,” Frank pants, “that’s it.” He feels tongue and fingers around him, gently making their way into his body, his arousal making everything oversensitive like it’s his first time. He brings his hand to stroke himself slowly, his body is almost too eager to relax around Gerard’s fingers. And Frank is loving it - he really, really is loving Gerard eating him out like that, but he wants something else. Soon enough, he bats Gerard’s hand away and says, “S’enough,” and shoves him down to the floor. 

He climbs on top of Gerard, straddling his still covered thighs, and kisses him hard and fast before sitting up again. Frank undoes the buttons on the vest, and then the shirt, while Gerard loosens and removes his tie, allowing for his torso to be exposed. And he’s so different from Frank, pale and unmarked but for a bunch of small scars here and there, and Frank covers him with hungry kisses. “I want you,” Frank confesses against his lips, “I want you so much.”

The only answer Gerard manages is a groan, and he flips them on the rug, his body covering Frank’s. The sensation of the fluffy old rug against his back and the denim against his front collide in Frank’s mind, adding up to the mouth against his and the small noises they’re both making. Frank wants to freeze this moment and keep it in his mind, and he remembers the fact that he’ll probably soon be literally damned to Hell. He feels his closed eyes stinging and fights back tears, and kisses Gerard even harder, like it could numb away the pain. 

But apparently he was a bit too obvious, because Gerard stops kissing him, and pulls away only enough to look at him. “Hey,” he says, and cups Frank’s face. “Are you - is this…?”

“No,” Frank shakes his head frantically, and pushes his head up, kissing Gerard’s cheek up to his ear. “I would’ve wanted you any day,” he whispers, as though someone else might hear them. “I want you any day. Everyday.”

Gerard freezes for a moment, but then he nods, and nuzzles his face against Frank’s, and that’s enough for both of them. Frank stretches an arm, reaching for his jeans, and takes his wallet from his back pocket. He pulls a packet of lube and a condom and shoves them into Gerard’s hand. “Now, Gerard,” he kisses him again. “Please.”

Frank props himself on his elbows and watches as Gerard kneels between his legs. His skin is ever so white against the black fabric that still hangs around his shoulders, and he shrugs it off hurriedly, his figure strong and wide in the poorly lit room. Even his unbuckling of his belt is done with an authority that makes Frank shiver. Gerard unzips and pushes his trousers down to his thighs, and he curses under his breath when he takes a hold of his own neglected cock. He slips on the condom and pours the lube on his hand, spreading some on himself and then on Frank. 

He bends over just enough to line himself to Frank, his eyes roaming all of Frank’s body, building up the hunger he displayed before. Both of them moan loudly when Gerard starts so slip in, slowly at first, and then all at once. 

“Yes,” Frank mumbles against Gerard’s lips, and then they’re lost. 

‡

After the rug, they had moved to Gerard’s bed, and it smelled of vanilla, just like him. The man was anything but vanilla, though, as Frank had come to find out. He was authoritative, controlling and blessed with a very precise knowledge of where and how to press down on Frank’s neck to make him orgasm for days without cutting off his breathing. It was brilliant. He had come on the rug, Gerard’s hand wrapped around his throat, and then again on the bed, on his knees, his wrists trapped behind his back.

Frank learned that Gerard would bite on his own lips when he orgasmed, and his eyes would look wild, feral, sated. 

He also learned that Gerard smelled of vanilla because every toiletry he owned was vanilla scented, boxes and boxes of soap, shampoo and lotion, which he had gotten as a payment for a job a couple years ago. They had stroked each other in the shower, leading to a third orgasm, which wiped them out completely and they fell to the bed still damp, exhausted, and fell asleep with their legs tangled under a soft duvet. 

  
  


‡

When Gerard wakes up, the sun hasn’t risen yet. He opens his eyes to his ceiling, and it takes him a second to remember what happened last night. There’s a weight on his chest, literally, and he realizes it’s Frank’s head. Frank is wrapped around him like a vine, his legs, his arms, even his hair all over Gerard’s skin, warm and comfortable, surrendered, peaceful. It’s almost enough to prevent a hole from opening in Gerard’s chest, but not quite. 

He lays awake, his eyes closed. He uses his other senses to commit this moment to memory. Allowing his hands to wander lightly, he threads his fingers on Frank’s hair and breathes in the scent of him. His soft, deep breaths are rhythmic, and it almost lulls Gerard back to sleep. 

Gerard stretches his legs, the burn on his thighs sharp from exertion, and a tingle travels its way to his groin as he remembers how he got that way. The whole thing is a bit crazy. Not that sleeping with someone he doesn’t know that well is any news - Hell, most of his sexual encounters happened in darkrooms with people he couldn’t even name, anyway. But this… is something else entirely. It’s that kind of thing he always dreamed of, in a way - meeting someone who just feels right, and getting to know them in between sessions of amazing sex where everything is new but kind of familiar at the same time. Gerard isn’t proud to realize that he craved this, pathetic as it might be, and it’s so close and so similar to his dreams he can’t help but to feel tempted to pretend, to let go, to ignore everything and be reckless and just let himself fall in love. 

But he’s no stranger to not having his way. He knows he can’t do this. There are still a few gaps to fill in this whole story, but the glint on Belial’s eyes as she encouraged their - whatever this was - is concerning. In fact, it’s a huge red flag, a trap so obvious Gerard would be an idiot to walk into it.

It still hurts, anyway. It hurts a _lot._

This shit never seems to end. His life never seems to end. He’s only thirty-two and emotionally bankrupt, hollow, living on autopilot, fighting for others day and night while no one ever fought for him. It’s draining. Paralyzing. He’s kept going, all of these years, but right now he just feels left out, invisible, irrelevant. Hopeless. Angry. 

His grip on Frank tightens a fraction, and he kisses the soft hair on top of his head. 

A shudder works its way up through his body, bothering Frank, who lets go of him in his sleep and turns away, facing the wall. Gerard cries in silence, his mouth open, trying to be as quiet as possible. Eventually, he gets up and goes sit on the couch. He shoves his face into a pillow and allows himself to sob until the sun is up and bright.

‡

Frank wakes up with a jolt. He knows where he is before he opens his eyes, and the rush in his heart from whatever dream he was having becomes one of joy. But when he does open his eyes, he’s alone in a cold bed that smells of dessert and sex. There’s a note on the pillow, and he reaches for it. 

**_Brian called, gotta run. Work. Please water my plants. Wait for me here. G._ **

He wonders if the note sounds harsh or just hurried. Voorhees jumps on the bed, rubbing his side against Frank’s thigh, and he pets the cat absentmindedly. It’s hard to tell with Gerard, really - he goes from sneering to loud, stupid cackling in the blink of an eye. Frank thinks about last night - about the passion in his hands and his eyes as they fucked, and how he kissed Frank gingerly for what seemed like hours after, or in between. It seemed like he meant it, and it sends a shiver down Frank’s spine to recall how it felt to be desired like that, like he was the best thing in the world, like this was absolutely _it._

He’s not sure, though. He did ask. He literally asked Gerard to do it, to take him, and after what Lucifer had told him, he doesn’t even know if all of this is real or if it’s just another artifice granted by Frank’s antichrist persuasion sorcery or whatever. 

He figures it was probably the latter.

“Motherfucker,” he grunts, and hides his face in the pillow. Fucking Lucifer with his fucking evil bullshit. It’s ridiculous, really, how this thing is turning out. How was any of this even happening, Frank didn’t know. It seemed like a bad movie. Or a good one, if he’s honest, right up his alley, the kind he’d buy on DVD. But it’s a hell of a lot different to actually be in the center of it. 

He wonders, for the millionth time, if he has lost his mind and he’s actually lying in a coma somewhere. 

Replaying the conversation from the afternoon before, he thinks of what he knows. He’ll be summoned, soon, to work the Fallen One’s evil ways or - what was it? War or something. _Go big or go home, and I intend to go big._ “Mother _fucker”,_ he grunts again, gritting his teeth. 

Frank gets up to use the bathroom, then picks up his underwear from the living room and goes make himself some coffee. He thinks of his mother, of her rasp ways, her cold eyes. He had never really blamed her, not since he was twelve and she told him how he came to be - he had been out after curfew, broke someone’s window and she was absolutely livid, shouting at him for hours. But it fucked him up, anyway, growing up with little to no affection from the one person in the world he expected to love him. Frank had never, not a day in his life, felt safe. He had never even felt wanted. Now he was - by Satan. How jolly.

He drinks his coffee, the cat observing him closely. He doesn’t know if this is the last day of his life. He has no idea how much longer he has with mundane tasks that result in no quarrels of international capacity or the death of everything good in the world. He doesn’t know if he should keep his shoes on, just to be on the safe side, or if this whole thing is a pill gone wrong in the back alley of the club. 

What he does know, and it comes back to him with a cold fear gripping at his guts, is that he won’t risk having the ‘heads of everyone he loves brought to him on spikes’. Whatever this beef is, it’s his to solve. He will not have Tierney suffer from it - or, if he’s being honest, Gerard. 

It sucks. It sucks really, really bad. That idiot with his huge green eyes and his baby teeth and his stupid laugh and his strong, relentless sex skills - Frank just - he just wants him _so bad_ it’s kind of ridiculous, and it’s almost like he could be it, he could probably be it, but he will never. They will never.

“Motherfucker,” Frank grunts again, and sets off to water the plants. 

‡

It’s not until a quarter past seven that Gerard makes it home. 

Frank thinks he might die from anxiety all day. He keeps switching between fits of occupying himself - with cleaning, reading, worrying, cooking - and being absolutely paralyzed. At a certain point, Voorhees had knocked a sketchbook off the coffee table and Frank nearly had a stroke thinking it was the Devil coming to fetch him. 

He also jerks off, twice, breathing in the scent they left on the sheets. Just to make sure he won’t jump Gerard when he gets home, he tells himself, after they agreed it would be a one time thing.

But he makes it through the day without clawing his skin off, and when the keys jiggle in the door, it’s all fine: the house is clean, Frank is bathed and dinner’s ready. His heart restarts this crazy thumping, and when the door opens, he’s almost buzzing in anticipation.

Gerard pulls the keys from the door before he looks up, and he almost freezes for a fraction of a second - his eyes wide, expectant, his mouth hanging open - but it’s over in a whiff. He smiles briefly at Frank and turns away, busying himself with the lock. “Hey,” he says - to the _door_ \- “it smells good in here.”

“Erm, yeah, I made dinner.” Frank can’t help but to deflate a little. It was one of those weird feelings, when you hope that things will follow its right course, the advisable course, the responsible course - but somehow there’s still a part of you secretly wishing otherwise. Frank was secretly wishing Gerard would walk in hungry and eat _him_ out before eating dinner. It’s unsettling, and Frank walks to the kitchen to get the lasagna out of the oven. 

By the time Gerard comes in from freshening up in the bathroom, Frank has the tiny foldable table set for both of them, wine glasses already poured. He sees green eyes go wide and waves him off. “I was bored, you know.”

“I’m not complaining,” Gerard offers, sitting down. “I just. I didn’t even know that oven worked. Did you go out for groceries?”

“Yeah, but it was fine, don’t worry.” Frank notices Gerard has a fresh bruise on his cheekbone, but it’s a small one. He also has a whole lot of lovebites and stubble burns on his jaw and neck, which he clearly didn’t get from work, and Frank finds it’s hard to keep parts of his body from twitching in interest. He clears his throat and reaches for the knife. “May I?”

“Why please, dear,” Gerard smirks, and sighs, watching Frank portion and serve the lasagna for both of them. “I’m, uh… I mean, thank you, seriously. I don’t think I ever came home to a dinner like this since I was sixteen, and even then it was takeout.”

“S’ok, I like cooking.” He picks up his wine glass and holds it up. “Cheers.”

“What are we toasting to?” Gerard holds up his glass, too, touching Frank’s very lightly.

Frank shrugs, and takes a sip. “I don’t know. The looming sense of dread in our guts? The smell of imminent Apocalypse? The death of everything Good?”

“Mmm.” Gerard swishes his wine in his glass, takes a sip, and smirks. “To a night of amazing sex, if everything else is unavailable.”

Frank almost spits his wine back into his glass. “Your table manners, Christ.”

“Amen,” Gerard chuckles, and dives into his plate. 

The little humming noises of approval that come from Gerard’s throat are everything they hear for a couple minutes, and Frank feels a warmth in his chest while watching him eat. Not that he’s very gracious about it - the man seems famished, like he just got out of jail, but Frank knows he probably hasn’t eaten all day, so he leaves him be. He wouldn’t want to ruin his appetite by talking about how he’ll be soon getting off to go murder some of innocent people Gerard tries so hard to save. But still; there are very little things in Frank’s life that make him as happy as seeing someone enjoy his cooking, and he’s smiling to himself by the time Gerard speaks up, serving his second helpings. 

“So, wanna tell me about what happened yesterday? Afternoon, I mean,” he blushes slightly, and shoves a forkful of lasagna into his mouth. “This is delicious, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Frank puts his own fork down and pushes his empty plate a little forward, making room to cross his arms over the table. He takes a deep breath. “Lucifer came to see me.”

Gerard freezes, his cheeks puffy, full of food. “ _Whut_ ,” he mumbles fiercely. It looks helplessly funny, and Frank snickers a little.

“Yeap,” he tuts, and takes a sip of his wine. “Please don’t stop eating on account of that.”

“Oh, d -- Jesus.” Gerard chews, swallows and downs the rest of his wine. “Fine, but please explain.”

“I was waiting for you, and he came by.” Frank pours more wine for both of them, and Gerard obediently resumes eating. “I thought it was you, and when I opened the door, it wasn’t, but he had this… I don’t know, he felt good. I thought he was an angel,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “The fuck kind of thought is that.”

“He is,” Gerard shrugs, but continues eating.

 _He’s hot, too,_ Frank thinks, but decides to skip that bit. “He just asked to come in and talk, and I fucking let him. I didn’t think. I think he worked his juju on me or something. I simply allowed Satan in the flesh to walk into my house.” He shakes his head and drinks a little, craving a cigarette. “I know this sounds ridiculous, but somehow, I _know_ it was him. It was really, really him. He made sure to give me a sample of the shit he can do to me.”

“Oh,” Gerard sounds pained, and reaches across the small table to give Frank’s forearm a little squeeze, but it’s quickly over, and he draws his hand back to himself. “I'm sorry.”

“It _was_ awful,” Frank agrees. “Really fucking awful. Anyway, he did his little show, made me wish for mercy and death in a blink of an eye, and then proceeded to explain what the fuck is it that he wants from me.” He plays with the ring on his middle finger, feeling a bit scared to tell Gerard - scared of his reaction. 

“Which is?” He’s given up eating, and Frank doesn’t even blame him. 

“Well, apparently I’m very _persuasive,”_ Frank tells him, finally meeting his eyes. “I always get my way because some demon raped my mother and I was born, and I can get people to do what I want, and now I gotta get people to do what _he wants,_ which is war or Apocalypse or something. Ah, fuck.” He hides his face in his hands, unable to hold Gerard’s gaze. “ _Go big or go home, and I intend to go big,_ I believe was what he said.”

Gerard is silent for a minute, and then says, “Come outside.” 

They get up, bringing their glasses with them, to the not-balcony. They lean against the threshold one on each side, facing each other, and the cold night wind is a welcome distraction on Frank’s face. Gerard lights them both up and they smoke silently for a minute, although Frank can almost hear the cogs inside his head working full speed. 

“I imagine he threatened to make your life a living hell if you don’t comply,” Gerard finally says. He’s looking away into the ugly city, a frown weighing his features. 

“And killing everyone I love,” Frank adds, faking a chipper tone. “Can’t forget that.”

“Yeah. There’s, erm, some lore about that.” Noticing Frank’s inquisitive look, he goes on. “In fact, some of it is on the book I picked up from Brian the night we met. There’s a lot of things that were… predicted, or prophesied, somewhere along history. This is one of them.”

“ _One_ of them?”

“Yeah, well,” Gerard pouts for a second, biting the inside of his cheek. “There are so many of these things out there, if all of them came to happen, there wouldn’t be a single thing left. Which is good, if you ask me. For you, I mean.”

“How exactly,” Frank leaves his cigarette hanging from his mouth as he talks, so he can gesture widely with the one that isn't holding the glass, “is being the fucking Antichirst from a prophecy any good for me?”

Gerard laughs over the rim of his glass. “You’re not the Antichrist, dimwit. Lucifer is the Antichrist. You’re a tool. Anyway, what I mean is, if there’s literature predicting it, maybe there’s literature dwelling on how to stop it.”

Frank blinks. “Oh.” A tiny spark of hope threatens to spring in his chest. “You… you think? We could find… a way out?”

“Look, Frank.” Gerard flicks away his cigarette and straightens himself. “I’m not saying this isn’t really, _really_ fucking bad - sorry, but it’s the truth. This _is_ really, really fucking bad. But,” he sighs, “the very least we can do is try.”

“I guess,” Frank sags. “I’m not counting on it, though. I feel he can pop up any second. To _collect_ me.”

“Why didn’t he?” Gerard muses out loud, sounding pensive. “Why the heads up?”

“I have to come willingly,” Frank answers, and he doesn’t know how he knows that, but he just does. “Hence the threats, etcetera.” He stares into his glass, and feels the question bubbling up his throat before he can stop it. “Why did you say we couldn’t? Last night, I mean. You said we shouldn’t do it.”

Gerard clears his throat. “I spoke to Belial yesterday.” He looks at Frank, who just makes a _who?_ face at him. “Lucifer’s first commander; came down with him when he was banished. A sycophantic evil bitch, if you ask me. She paid me a visit at work.”

Oh, this is bad. “She _what.”_

“Not the first time,” he says, and his face falls a little. “She’s handling you personally, by the way.”

This is so bad. So, so bad. Suddenly Frank remembers something, and it falls on him like a brick. All of those nightmares, those attacks. “What does she look like?”

Gerard exhales sharply and walks into the bedroom, rummaging through some paintings that are piled up in the corner. He picks up a small canvas and holds it up. There’s a painting of a woman in a long, red dress. “I’ve never actually seen her, but this is in my mind a lot.”

This is so extremely, unspeakably bad. “Yeah.” Frank heads across the room to his backpack, picks out his sketchbook, and flicks it to a page in the middle of it, holding it up to Gerard. There it is, his own version of a tattoo-like sketch of a woman, pin-up style, a tight red dress around her. “I guess that’s her.”

The canvas flies across the room, landing heavily against the wall and dropping to the floor. “Fuck,” Gerard says, and sits on his bed. Frank comes and sits by his side, his empty glass still in his hands. “She said… she stalled, mostly. I guess so I’d stay out of Lucifer’s way while he was there with you. And she said…”

He pauses, and Frank says, “Said what?”

Gerard sighs, for what seems to be the hundredth time since he got home. “She wanted us to… to be together. She didn’t say so with every word, but she did.”

Voorhees walks into the room and jumps onto Gerard’s legs, and they both stroke his fur silently for a moment. “They want leverage,” Frank eventually says, and he doesn’t even sound angry, just tired. “They want me to fall in love with you, so they’ll have leverage when they decide it’s time for me to go.”

When he looks up, Gerard is frowning at him, his mouth agape. “Did Lucifer tell you that?”

“No,” he admits, his voice small. “I just know it. I guess I can think like them, because I’m one of them.”

“Frank, you’re not.”

Frank scoffs. “I guess it’s a bit late for that.”

“No, you’re _not_.” His voice changes, the authoritative tone back into it, and it sends a shiver right down Frank’s spine. “You are not theirs to define. Don’t--”

“Was last night real?” Frank asks abruptly, his hands tight on his empty glass. “You didn’t want to, and I asked, and I’m scared you only did it because I made you.”

Gerard’s face twists, and Frank can swear he sees a glint of tears filling them up, making him look just like those angelic paintings in the books he found on the shabby shelves. But Gerard blinks them away quickly. “No,” he whispers, and takes Frank’s face in his hands. Voorhees jumps to the floor and scurries off, letting Gerard turn sideways where he’s sitting. “Look at me. It was real. It _is_ real. Just because we shouldn’t, doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Don’t you fucking doubt that for a second, okay?”

Frank’s eyes fall shut for a moment, and he thinks, _do it, please, do it, I want you so much._ Desire holds him by the throat in a tight grip, just like Gerard’s hands did last night, and he can’t help wishing for recklessness. But when he opens his eyes, Gerard is still staring at him from a distance, his eyes pained, his hands firm. “Promise me, Frank,” he says, his voice low. “Promise you won’t doubt that.”

“I promise,” he says, and walks out of the room.


	7. the herald

By the ninth day, they have a routine. 

They wake up early. Frank makes breakfast. Gerard drinks copious amounts of coffee, if he has the time. Most days he gets a phone call from Brian before 7 and has to hurry out for work, but he gets home for lunch, and Frank wonders if Lucifer is getting his crew to take it easy, or if demons are just really getting dumber. 

While Gerard is off to work, Frank tries to keep himself busy. He had a mattress and a new punching bag delivered, and he set up his little corner in the living room. He exercises, throwing all of his rage into his fists, punching at the vinyl until his wrists are close to a wreck. He fixes the apartment: he patches little leaks, rewires ruined power sockets, screws back drawer rails and cleans the shower head so it goes back to a fierce stream (Gerard was particularly happy with that one). He cooks a lot, making every meal except for lunch, which they order, for the sake of not having to do the dishes after Gerard is home, so they can make better use of their time. He finds an old acoustic guitar in the cupboard, and the cords are kind of crappy but he can manage to fiddle with it for a while, and it’s comforting. 

“It seems like you’re good at everything,” Gerard muses when he catches Frank with the guitar, “it’s unfair.”

And Frank doesn’t reply, because he’s once again struck with the realization that yes, it is unfair, and he does seem to be talented at everything he’s ever attempted to do, basically because he is the cursed spawn of Satan. And this feels like utter absolute crap, and he goes back to his punching bag, daydreaming of beating the ever living shit out of Lucifer. 

In the afternoons, they do research. Gerard has brought home more books, and they read the dusty old things in between mugs of coffee and cigarettes, sitting on cushions on the floor by the not-balcony, their legs often tangled. It doesn’t lead anywhere, though. 

It’s hard - it’s like once you’ve slept with someone, you become intimate in a way that is too natural. Frank used to think he could tell when a couple has already had sex or not, based on their body language, but he never stuck around anyone long enough to find out if that was true. Now, he knows it is: touching Gerard seems right, easy, natural. Hell, he had the man’s cock in his mouth; touching the small of his back when he leans over the counter for a mug is just… normal. Touching legs with him as they sit in a fairly narrow space seems just as easy, and feels like home. 

And other things are easy, too, with Gerard. Touching. Talking. Laughing. Everything.

He fights it, at first - they both do. The whole agreement of not indulging in their attraction or their, well, feelings?, had them jumping two feet away anytime they ended up having physical contact by accident. But it gets old really fast. The apartment is not so big, and they’re not going anywhere, so eventually they end up just living with it. By the end of the second day, they’re sitting together on the couch, feeling cozy and warm, and none of them tries to make something out of it, but they don’t shy away from one another either. And then, by the fifth day, it’s maddening, absolutely infuriating, having Gerard at his reach, in his palms, and not being able to lean in and kiss. 

It feels like a Jane Austen novel, Frank thinks, in which he’s pining like mad and forbidden to act on it. And Gerard is really not helping, his air of authority triggering Frank’s every kink. Whenever he gets home, he shrugs off his coat - the one Frank bought him for his birthday - and even though it’s getting warmer by the day, he wears it everyday, but the act of taking it off is done in such a way it goes straight to Frank’s cock. Maybe it’s the fact that he always seems upset when he first arrives, his brow furrowed, his hair tousled, his cheeks pink from exertion or the wind or whatever. And then, there you have it, Frank gets hard from watching a man take off his coat. Like in a Jane Austen novel. 

The memory of Gerard pushing down his trousers to fuck Frank on the rug doesn’t help, either. It’s an all time favorite, Frank thinks, and it takes him less than a second to conjure the feeling back into his mind, and his stomach does a full backflip again and he often has to excuse himself to the bathroom. 

But there are also their soft afternoons. Well, as soft as it gets when you’re desperately trying to find any literature that helps one get rid of a deal with the Devil. Sometimes, Frank steals a glance, taking in Gerard’s - and he has quote marks in his head as he thinks of it - _symmetrical features_ and his upturned nose and his huge green eyes and his stupid baby teeth. It’s infuriating. “You’re infuriating,” he splurts out one afternoon, unable to keep his thoughts to himself. 

“Suck my dick,” Gerard bites back, not looking up from his book. 

“I’d love to,” Frank says, which gets Gerard to look at him, finally, a fierce blush crawling up his neck, but then he kicks Frank’s shin and keeps reading without saying a word. 

They usually read and discuss their findings - or lack thereof - until after sunset, but it always gets to a point where the letters start scrambling in front of their eyes, and they stop. They shower - separately, unfortunately, - get into more comfortable clothes and make an attempt at a normal life. They eat dinner, have drinks and talk. Gerard majored in fine arts, likes the very same kind of music and movies Frank does and always dreamt of having a band. 

When Frank asks him how he ended up leaving everything he loved behind to become an exorcist, “Because, I mean, all due respect, but that’s kinda really fucking weird”, Gerard tells him about Mikey. 

That’s the worst night. 

Gerard goes on for a long time - enough for them to finish three beers each - and by the end of it, his eyes are red rimmed and his nose stuffed from crying. He tells Frank about how much he loved his brother and how he had similar talents to Frank, how popular he was and how everything he ever attempted doing, he managed well. “He learned how play bass in like, a week, because he wanted to be in a band, and he was fucking good at it, too,” he had said, sounding like a proud big brother, his face stained with tears. “It was just before everything went to shit.”

Gerard tells Frank about Mikey behaving weird at first, and then being tied up to a bed for four months. He talks about long nights listening to an endless growling, praying to a God he didn’t know existed, after no doctor managed to fix his brother. He talks about his grandmother being murdered and folded like an origami by Belial, all-powerful even in Mikey’s frail frame, and in that moment he breaks, and sobs for almost an hour as Frank holds him tight. 

They sleep together that night, just comforting and no sex, and that’s when Frank knows he’s going to do whatever Lucifer wants, because he’d rather kill a thousand innocent people than have Gerard be hurt ever again.

‡

“And you’re telling me _now?”_ Brian touches his forehead, like the cogs in his brain are hurting as he takes it all in. Gerard remains silent, allowing him a minute, knowing that he’s cataloguing the information in his weird, all-remembering Wikipedia mind. “Hell.”

“Quite.”

“Look. This… doesn’t look good, Gerard.” He scratches his throat, his blue eyes lost. “This is some major league shit.”

“Yeah.” He leans back against the chair, craving a cigarette, but Brian would kill him if he smoked indoors. “We’ve been reading every book we can find, and there are really no records of anyone getting away from this. Quite the opposite, really.”

“Yeah no shit.” He shakes his head, and his tone is making Gerard feel terrible - like this is the end of it. If Brian doesn’t seem to have hope, they might as well all be damned. “I mean… there’s lots of lore on pagan deities and bargaining, but Christianity is all about the almighties, and they kind of crush any competition.”

Gerard huffs, close to losing his temper. “We need to try _something_ here, Brian, there’s no way this is just it. It can’t be, it just can’t.”

“Of course it can, Gerard. He’s a Herald.”

“Oh.” Gerard blinks, the concept forming in his mind from something he had to study a long time ago. “Oh, God.” He goes through his own memories of what that means - being a messenger, a diplomat, those who carry words and deeds. 

“Not God, unfortunately,” Brian argues. “I think Frank is a Herald of the Underworld. His entire existence rests on the purpose set out for him a long time ago, and that’s not the kind of thing you can pray your way out of.”

“Do you think Mikey was a Herald, too?” He asks before he can stop himself. 

Brian shakes his head. “No. That was something else.”

They sit silently for a minute, and the air seems thick in Gerard’s lungs. “So Frank… he’s going to be the one talking people into doing bad things.”

“Not exactly people,” Brian muses. “Well, yeah, in a way. But it’s like… demons and obsessors, _they_ mess with people. Bad decisions, mostly, but the eventual murder and shit. It’s a petty job, ants in a quest. Heralds, though… they’re more… corporate. Big dog fight, you know. If you look back in an event in History and think, ‘Jesus Christ, how the fuck can someone be so nasty? How can a person decide to exterminate 6 million people in camps and everyone just thinks, _well he has a point_ , and let that shit happen?’ You know, stuff like that. That’s Heralds.”

Gerard looks flummoxed. “How the fuck didn’t I know that, Brian? Why didn’t you-- _fuck,_ I’ve been doing this job for ten fucking years and I didn’t --”

“You don’t exorcise Heralds, Gerard,” Brian rolls his eyes. “They don’t possess people, you dolt. They _befriend_ them. Seduce them. Talk them into believing something, or wanting something, and acting on it.”

“You _knew_ Frank,” Gerard mumbles, anger boiling up his chest. He knows it’s not Brian’s fault, but he can’t help it. “You’ve known him all these years, and you couldn’t tell.”

Brian frowns and holds up a finger. “Don’t.” He doesn’t change his tone, but his jaw clenches, and Gerard knows he struck a nerve. “Mikey, I could tell. In fact, I did tell you. But Frank? I thought he had a sensitivity, but he never told me about the rest of this shit, just like you fucking didn’t for how long, now, huh? Weeks? Fuck you, Gerard.” He takes a deep breath. “Anyway, it’s not like this happens everyday. It makes sense that he’s one, though, now I think about it. Half of my tattoos I didn’t even want, he just talked me into getting them.”

And this sucks, but Gerard can’t help it: he starts crying. He hasn’t cried in front of Brian in a decade, and he absolutely hates that he is going to now, but he can’t help it. He folds his arms over the table, hides his face in them and lets himself cry. He feels absolutely hopeless and powerless, and there’s an aching stab in his chest he seems to be carrying around since the first time he saw his brother’s eyes go pitch black. 

Brian lets him be for long minutes, but then he says, “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Gerard doesn’t answer, and cries some more.

‡

**_Can’t make it to lunch. Caught up at work. Xo G_ **

Frank looks at his phone in dismay. He isn’t sure he believes the text. 

After a long session of crying like he’d been holding it in for years, Gerard had fallen into a restless sleep, and Frank would pet his hair and hold him tighter, whispering calming words into his ear. “Shh, I’m here,” he’d say, “I’m here now.”

Eventually he too had dozed off, and when he woke, Gerard was gone. 

Frank had an especially intense encounter with his punching bag in the morning, but this time, he thought not of Lucifer, but of Belial. Now he was bathed, hungry and alone, and he decided to get out of the house. What’s the worst that could happen anyway; the Devil coming to get him? Too late for that, he figured. The silver lining of reaching rock bottom was having absolutely nothing to fear anymore. 

He grabs a denim jacket and heads off, hauling a cab on the way and giving his house address. His unease from his evil antenna is nothing but average; mild, even, like Lucifer was giving him a little bit of a break. Not that this made him feel any better in the big picture, though. It seemed even more dangerous, and Frank just wondered what kind of pain he’d be facing soon. 

When Frank arrives at his building, his mailbox is full. He grabs the envelopes and heads to his apartment, calmly checking his correspondence, which is nothing but bills and ads. It feels ordinary and wonderful, and he misses his old life for a second. Well, parts of it, anyway. 

He steps off the lift and perks his ears up as he goes down the hallway. Somehow, he expects the reek of sulfur to reach him before he arrives at his door, but it doesn’t. The door, which he could’ve sworn would be scorched black like the rest of the condo, rests as white and pristine as ever. Frank frowns, almost disappointed, when the key slips into the lock without any fuss. No burning, no hissing, no agonizing pain. “Huh.” He twists the knob and opens the door. 

Well, at least it’s no longer burnt to shit. His stuff looks the same they always have. The only difference is that everything is upside down. The carpet is on the ceiling, the lightbulbs on the ground. Even his punching bag is hanging - hanging? - from the floor. 

“Nope,” Frank says, shuts the door behind him, and gets the fuck out of there.

‡

The bells chime loudly when Frank arrives at the shop. There’s no one on sight, not even Tierney, but he hears her calling from the back, “In here, Frankie! Lock the door behind you.”

Frank walks into the shop until he reaches Tienery’s office, and she throws herself at him in a tight hug that almost makes him lose his balance. He laughs and wraps his arms around her, pulling her slightly off the floor. “How did you know it was me?” He asks, not letting go. 

“I dreamt of it last night,” she answers like it’s absolutely nothing. “I missed you, buttface.”

“I missed you too, gorgeous,” he grants, and puts her down to gesture with the plastic bag around his wrist. “I bought us lunch.”

“God bless your beautiful soul,” she grins, and they walk over to her desk to eat. She organizes the documents scattered around in a neat pile - from the MA she’s getting, Frank reckons - and they sit, spreading containers of dips and nachos around to go with their vegan burritos. Frank has actually gotten her two burritos. Tierney is a tiny witch with a cute freckled face, but she can eat like a wolf, and Frank just watches her take her first bite, his heart aching with how much he missed her. 

“My life is so much better when I get to watch you eating like a swine,” he laughs, and she flips him off with a greasy finger. 

“Why did you disappear on me last night?” She asks as she stuff nachos into her mouth. “You left me on read like a little bitch, dude.”

“Sorry,” he says, and stops for a minute so Tierney can wipe sauce from his face with a napkin. “Gerard started telling me about some stuff from his life and it got… ah…”

“Yeah,” Tierney cuts him off, “I get it. He probably didn’t draw blood sucking demons in his career day worksheets when he was a kid.”

“Mm, no,” Frank agrees. “Demons don’t suck blood, Tierney.”

“Oh my God, shut the fuck up.” She throws a rumpled, disgusting napkin at him, but he just ducks and laughs. “What are you, Mister Expert on Demonology now? The important question is: did you give him an extra special blowjob to make him feel better?”

Frank clears his throat. “Yeah, about that. Uh.”

Tierney swallows and grimaces. “You’re about to say something really stupid, aren’t you?”

“No,” Frank says without conviction. “Is just. After that first night…”

“Amazing, by the way,” she comments, kissing her fingers. 

“We didn’t do it again. Like, we’re not together or anything.”

She chews and swallows silently on the rest of her burrito, then crumples the wrapping, wipes her mouth with a napkin and lays out her hands flat on the desk. “Why the fuck not.”

Frank shrugs, and he feels he screwed up before he even explains. He never told her about how the threat Lucifer made was actually of taking her, and not Gerard. “They wanted us to do it. Lucifer, I mean.” He finishes his own food and wipes his hands clean. “So we can fall in love or something and then they’ll have leverage, you know. ‘Come with us or we’ll hurt him’ or something. So we’re not. Er, fucking.” 

“Right,” Tierney chants, her eyebrows raised and a sarcastic smile on her lips. “How’s that working out for you?” When Frank’s only answer is a sigh, she leans forward to smack the back of his head. “Fucking imbeciles, the two of you. ‘We’re not together or anything.’ Fuck’s sake, Frankie, do you even listen to yourself? I thought you were supposed to be like, inhumanly clever.”

“Well, what was I supposed to do?” He flails his hands around, trying to keep his cool. He hadn’t admitted that to anyone, not even himself. “I had to stay there with him, and he’s just… he’s just…”

“Lovable.”

“Yes!” 

“I know, sweetie.” The same hand that slapped him now rests on top of his forearm, warm and comforting. “He does have something about him. That day he came into the shop… it was like his guardian angel was right behind him, or something. He’s not alone, that one.”

“He _feels_ alone, though,” Frank sags in his chair, thinking about how Gerard mumbled, in his sleep, over and over, _‘Please don’t leave me.’_ “And I’m gonna have to leave, soon. The sooner the better, I guess. This is already bad enough as it is.”

“Do not say that in my presence, Francis,” Tierney chides, “You are not going. We’ll figure this out. I have this weird feeling I’m sitting on the answer, and I’m trying to open my third eye to figure it out, but it just won’t come to me.”

“Okay, first, my name is not _Francis_ , and don’t bother, Tierney, really.” Frank doesn’t want to alarm her to the fact that he’s given up hope, but he’s pretty sure she would pick up on his bullshit if he tried to play cool. “The truth is there’s no way out. I’m gonna have to go with him. But I was thinking, you know, if I’m gonna have to stir shit up like, on Earth?, I could still come and visit. It’s not like I’m gonna die or anything. I’ll just have a really shitty job and no soul.”

Tierney silently regards him. She looks completely heartbroken, her small features twisted under her short fringe. Her eyes are glossy with tears and her voice breaks when she says, “I hate this, Frankie. I know there’s something I can do, I _know it_ , I just…”

There’s a sharp knock on the glass door. The clock on the wall tells them it’s half past one. “I guess John’s back from his break,” Tierney says, and goes away into the studio. Frank lingers in the office for a little, fighting down tears of his own, and munching on some nachos, before he joins them in the parlor. 

It’s nice to be there. He greets his coworkers, who come back from their lunches one by one, and then there’s customers and the usual buzz. Frank tells them he’s going away for a while, and he won’t be able to work at the shop, and they all keep doing their thing in a mellow mood, although still chatting amicably. 

Tierney decides to get yet another tattoo, one with a verse Frank sees a lot in her wiccan Pinterest board, and he sketches it over the counter. He writes the words, _AS ABOVE / SO BELOW_ , in fine serifed writing and inks it on her ankles, under the little wings she has in each one of them. The humming of the machine and the buzzing of the needle make Frank’s heart ache with a longing that was borderline adoring, and it’s the hardest day he’s had in a long time. 

He lets Tierney tattoo him, too, even though she has never done it, and she makes a wobbly looking glyph just under the hollow of his throat. “Don’t ask,” she says when he looks at it in the mirror and wonders what it’s for, so he doesn’t.

He says goodbye just before sunset, and Tierney walks him to the door. She wraps her skinny arms around his middle and he holds her in a tight, long hug. 

“I love you, kid,” he says into her hair. “You have no idea.”

She stands by the door when he walks away, and he turns his head to look at her one last time. She seems even smaller wearing his denim jacket when she waves him goodbye, her freckled face under the neon sign, glistening with tears. 

‡

  
  


Frank feels rather than hears his phone ringing, the buzzing in his pocket warning him he’s just got some texts. He chugs down the rest of his whiskey - the second of the evening - and rests the glass on the counter of the bar. 

**_I’m home_ **

**_Where dyou go?_ **

**_Are you ok?_ **

Frank types a quick text letting Gerard know he’s fine and he’ll be home soon. And then he snorts, thinking about how he doesn’t even know if he still has a home. What’s home for him? Not his apartment, hanging upside down. Not Gerard’s, either, as much as he likes it there. He supposes he doesn’t really have a home, just like he never really had a mother, or a family, or any stability and affection. 

He gestures the bartender for another and puts his head in his hands. 

Maybe the shop was his home. No, it was Tierney. She was the closest he’d ever gotten from a home, affection or safety. Well, her and Gerard, if he’s being honest. They haven’t known each other that long, but he just feels… right. 

He wonders if he’ll still be able to see him. From afar, at least… Frank supposes he won’t be able to offer Gerard much of a future, though. It’s not like he could date an exorcist while working for Lucifer… is it?

The bartender puts a new glass in front of him, and Frank reaches for his wallet when the guy says, “This is from him,” and points to the other end of the bar.

“Motherfucker,” Frank hisses, and it’s like Lucifer can hear him, because he smiles and gets up from his seat. Frank takes a long sip of his whiskey and then Lucifer reaches him, sliding onto the next stool. 

“Good evening, my love,” he greets. Frank had forgotten how good his voice sounded. Or how good he smelled, and how good he looked. Noticing Frank’s stare, Lucifer grins and unbuttons the top of his shirt. 

“Yeah, hi,” Frank finally answers, and adverts his gaze. He feels disgusted at himself. For a second, he had completely forgotten who he was dealing with, and just let himself be drawn to that creepy magnetism Lucifer had. 

“It’s quite alright, dear, you can look.” 

The melodic voice rings like an invitation in Frank’s ears, or a command, he’s not sure, and he does look. Lucifer is in a black shirt, black trousers and has a large crucifix hanging from his neck. So simple, yet… so inviting. He looks good enough to eat, and Frank almost whimpers. 

“You can touch, too, if you want,” Lucifer continues. “In fact, I believe I would like that very much.”

“Shove it,” Frank barks, and drinks his whiskey, but Lucifer just chuckles and takes a sip of his own drink. “Are you here to collect me?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid.” He rests his chin on the heel of his hand, and his blue eyes are anything but devilish. “My apologies. The renovations in your chambers are taking a bit longer than I expected.”

Frank rolls his eyes. “How terribly inconvenient.”

“It is!” Lucifer beams, like he’s happy to hear Frank agreeing with him. “I promise it shall be worth the wait. Only the most exclusive silks for my favorite man.”

“If you’re not here to fetch me, what do you want?” 

“Now don’t be rude, Frank,” Lucifer smiles at him. “We’re just two gentlemen having a little chat.”

“I have nothing to _chat_ with you,” Frank snaps, taking a sip. “You can fuck right off.”

“Now, that’s rubbish, and you know it.” His smile fades, but he still doesn’t look menacing. “I heard what you said to your friend the witch. You want to come and visit her, do you?”

Frank’s eyes go straight to Lou’s face. “Will I be able to?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, “but I don’t know if she’ll like that very much. You see, dear, it takes a toll. The job. I suppose what you’ll end up carrying around with you will leave her knackered. Possibly dead. But you’re free to make your own trials.” Lucifer raises his glass, which had been empty just a second ago, but it’s filled to the top again. “Cheers.”

“You underestimate her,” Frank mumbles without conviction. “What’s, uh… what is my job, exactly? Am I going to convince people of doing things that lead into a war?”

“Mm,” Lucifer takes another long sip. “That is a rather dim description, but yes, you could say that. You’ll reach high though, darling. It’s not that difficult, really, it’s mostly politics and a little cheek. You should do just fine.” He looks around the bar. “Do you fancy some chips? They must have some in this dump.”

“They do,” Frank says, and orders for them. He could eat something. And have another drink. “Why do you bother, anyway?” He asks when the waiter leaves with their order. “Making people suffer and all. Why do you get off on it?”

Lucifer smiles fondly at him, and he’s so good at looking friendly and inviting, he almost fools Frank there for a second. He does look out of place though - everything about him is elegant, refined, and the bar is most certainly not. “Ah, Frank. People do take me for a heartless bastard, don’t they? Little do they know.”

“Know what?”

“Everything I do is for love, Frank.” His eyes meet Frank’s, and he seems almost sad. “I had my heart broken once, too, you know. Because of… mortals. Humans. And trust me, my boy, I can hold a grudge. I invented them, really.” He sighs, and takes a sip of his drink. “But as much as it amuses me to watch their lot fight to the death, this time I just need to raise a little Hell so I can get the board upstairs to come and tell me off. You know.” He tilts his head and looks up. “Her.”

Frank frowns. “You keep saying that. _Her.”_

“ _God_ , Frank,” he snaps. “I want God.”

“God is a _Her_?” He frowns deeper. “God is a lady?”

Lucifer rolls his eyes so hard, they go fully white for a second, and he looks positively demonic. “If you say anything chauvinistic, I swear to Her, I will smite you.” He straightens his posture, regaining his composure. “Yes, She is a _lady_ . Do you honestly think a man could have built all of this? Do you think a man could’ve made _me?_ ”

Frank considers this. “Point. But why do you want Her?”

Lucifer shrugs, sucking from his straw. He seems almost… shy. “I like Her.”

Frank looks at his own hands on the counter, his face twisted, and he thinks really hard for a long minute, until it hits him. “You’re starting a war so God can come and tell you off because you’ve got a crush on Her?” He looks at Lucifer, who just sits there noncommittally, like it’s nothing. Nothing at all. “Jesus Christ.”

“Successful PR stunt, that one,” Lou points out. 

“Jesus Christ, what are you, three?” He almost shouts for a second, before he remembers to lower his voice. “You’re unbelievable, you know that.”

“That would be your first lesson,” Lucifer smiles, “people have all kinds of motivations to do what they do, and it’s your job to find out what they are.”

“People, yeah. You’re not a person.”

Lucifer glares at him for a second, and Frank knows he’s fucked before he even speaks. “Your second lesson is to show some Goddamn respect.”

Frank isn’t sure what happens next, but he sees red; his body is crushed under the weight of a thousand daggers, a million stones, and he can feel his bones grinding down to dust, his guts melting like lava, his skull splitting open like a pomegranate. He shouts, but no sound comes out of his throat, and it’s like he’s underwater, his lungs burning as he drowns. 

And then he’s back at the bar, gasping for air. Before he can lift his head, he throws up. He can taste bile and whiskey, and something like sulfur. 

“There, there,” Lucifer says, patting his back. 

Frank spits onto the floor and looks around. No one seems to have noticed what just happened. Lucifer is gladly eating his chips. Frank’s ribs still feel like they were pulled apart one by one, and he wants to throw a punch at that smug piece of shit, but he refrains.

“You’re the worst boss ever,” he croaks. 

“And I’m sure you’ll be employee of the month,” he beams. “Chip?”

Frank chugs down his drink - refilled, he notices - and stuff some chips into his mouth. “When are you coming to get me, then?” He finally asks, his every hope completely crushed. 

“I’ll have Belial come and get you,” he answers, his voice mellow, as if he hadn’t just tortured Frank spineless. “Shouldn’t take long.”

“Wait. No,” Frank protests fiercely, but then holds back. He’s not hot for another session of whatever that was. “Not her. I hate her. You come.”

“What did I just tell you, Frank?” Lucifer warns, his tone colder.

“Lucifer seriously, not her. I’ll come with you. Please.” He feels disgusted by his own words. “I’ll come, just - not her.”

“Frank, _seriously,”_ he mocks, imitating Frank’s accent, “you’ll go with whoever the fuck I tell you to. And you should be so honoured Belial will come and fetch you. She’s my number one man. Woman. Serpent, whatever.”

Frank huffs. “But--”

“And you’ll be working directly under her throughout all of your journey, so I suggest you get the fuck used to it, and don’t ever question my orders again.” 

“No.” Frank’s voice trembles, and he’s terrified. “Not her. You can torture me all you want, I won’t come with her.”

Lucifer’s jaw clenches tight, and the warmth emanating from him makes the entire space grow several degrees hotter in a whiff. He rises from his seat and smoothes his shirt, getting ready to leave. His face seems to shimmer a little as he steps closer to Frank, so close his lips brush the man’s ear, and he says, in Gerard’s voice, “Yes you fucking will.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading, commenting and sticking around. I do have to struggle to find the time to write this, but it's my favorite thing to do. Having readers means the world. <3


	8. slice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (You'll know what I'm talking about when you see it:) A soft-spoken conversation "about music, tendonitis and then, strangely, planes" is my own experience with said person. Please don't hate on him. 
> 
> TW for a gory chapter.

Frank lets himself into the building with the spare keys Gerard gave him. He feels heavy with grief, his limbs tired and cold. He had given Tierney his jacket and it was a cold night, the drizzle an angry whirlwind, coming from every direction. By the time he reaches home he’s soaked, and he makes his way up the steps slowly. 

When he opens the door, Gerard is sitting on the couch, Voorhees on his lap and a book on his hands. He looks up when Frank enters, and his eyes are worried. “Where have you been?” he asks softly. “I was starting to have all kinds of thoughts…”

“I’m fine,” Frank gives him a soft smile. “I need a shower.” He can’t look Gerard in the eye, not yet. Not when he has to admit to having drinks with Lucifer like two old pals, negotiating the terms of his surrender, which could happen any moment, now. 

Voorhees follows Frank into the bathroom, and so he doesn’t even bother closing the door. He just opens the faucet into a thin stream for the cat to drink some water and sets off to the shower, turning the water as hot as he can. He scrubs himself raw, the skin underneath his tattoos turning an angry red, and yet he feels filthy. However, the smell of vanilla from Gerard’s toiletries is comforting, and it cuts open a tiny premature wound on his heart. He feels nostalgic already, missing something he is yet to give up. 

When Frank steps out of the shower, he looks at himself in the foggy mirror. The little glyph Tierney made on his collarbone is almost imperceptible, surrounded by lots of heavier ink, but he loves it. He touches it with the tip of his fingers, and his jaw clenches with the idea of never seeing her again. 

His life absolutely _sucks._

He throws on some sweatpants but no shirt, and he definitely has an agenda when he goes back to the living room like that. It obviously works, he notes, when Gerard’s eyes are glued to his body as he drags himself closer and sits next to him. He leans against the arm of the couch, puts his wet head back, and sighs. “What a weird fucking day,” he finally says, getting his head back up to be able to look at the other man. “Why didn’t you come home for lunch?”

“I’ve got a bad one going, but Brian has this friend from Chicago here in town and he took over the night shift.” Gerard eyes him again. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt? It’s cold.”

“Is that a complaint?” Frank asks, and it was supposed to be teasing, but his voice is flat. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. He feels a little dead inside. “I hate wearing a shirt indoors, actually.”

Gerard hums. “I could get used to that.” His eyes land on the new tattoo. “What is that? A hieroglyph?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Tierney made it.”

“You tattoo symbols you don’t know the meaning of?” His eyebrows are raised, a dumb half-smile on his face. “How clever of you.”

“I trust her with my life,” he shrugs again. “It’s probably for protection.”

“It says _‘dipshit’.”_

“No it doesn’t.”

“Well it could,” he says, going back to his book. “Next time, you should ask her first.”

“Ah yeah, about that,” Frank starts, and Gerard’s eyes shoot right back to him. “There won’t be a next time.”

Gerard frowns. “Did you guys have a fight?”

“No, not at all.” Suddenly Frank really regrets not putting on a shirt. He feels bare, vulnerable, and not in the way he usually likes it around Gerard. He knows what he’s about to say won’t be taken very well. He clears his throat. “I went to say goodbye.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Gerard shuts the book so harshly it makes a loud thump. “Frank, no.”

“I’m going with him, Gerard.”

“No, you’re fucking not!” He throws the book on the coffee table, and Voorhees, who had been napping on it, jumps five feet into the air, but Gerard barely notices. “What the fuck, Frank.”

Frank takes a deep breath and stands up, pacing the room. “After I left the shop, I went to the pub. I just wanted a quick drink before you got home.” He swallows hard, feeling his throat itch. “Lucifer was there.” Frank scoffs, and lets out a humourless laugh. “Have you ever seen him?”

Gerard shakes his head, but remains silent. 

“He doesn’t look like what they show in the books, y’know? With horns and goat legs and shit. He is, actually, and I hate to say it, the hottest man I’ve ever seen. He even sounds nice, like. Posh; european. God, I hate him.”

“Of course he looks nice, Frank,” Gerard says, his voice small. “He was God’s most beloved.”

“Hah, you have no idea,” he says, thinking of Lucifer looking almost like a shy schoolboy, saying _‘I like her’,_ and the insanity of the whole thing almost drives him into hysterics. “Anyway, I, uh…” he tuts, and shakes his head briefly, swinging on the balls of his feet with his hand shoved deep in his pockets. “Yeah, I’m gonna go with him. I don’t know when, exactly, but it shouldn’t take long.”

“No,” Gerard says, shaking his head frantically, and stands up to face him. “No, you’re not! We’ll fight him, Frank. I’ll fight him. I won’t let him take you.”

Frank feels his face scrunching up, and his eyes sting. All he wants to do is to grab Gerard by the hair and kiss him one last time, but he doesn’t. He takes a deep breath, instead, and it’s a shaky one. He sniffs, and realizes a bit too late his face is wet. Drying his cheeks with the back of his hand, he tries to offer Gerard a smile as he lies through his teeth. “It’s alright, don’t worry. If I don’t do it, someone else will. And I’ll be like, super powerful and rich. It’s not so bad.”

“Yes it is, Frank,” Gerard argues, stepping closer, “you have no idea how bad it is. It’s the ugliest thing in the world.”

“Enough,” Frank says, and Gerard falls silent. “This is not up for debate. I’m going with him, or he’ll kill Tierney, and he’ll kill you, and I won’t have that. I would die first.” 

Gerard makes a pained sound, and closes the distance between them in one quick step. He holds Frank’s face with both of his hands and kisses him, and his lips taste of tears, and Frank’s hands come up to cup his shoulder blades and hold him there. 

It’s all over in a second, though. Gerard lets go of him and steps back, slaps him hard on the face and stomps away. He bangs the bedroom door shut so hard Frank can hear the glassware in the kitchen rattling, and then the apartment is silent for the rest of the night.

‡

Gerard wakes up to the sound of pigeons on his balcony. He barely got any sleep, but when he wakes, the sun is up, and that should mean the day has started.

He gets dressed, and he knows his hair is everywhere but he doesn’t bother to brush it. His phone buzzes on the nightstand and it’s Brian, telling Gerard that Bob had a shit night with the kid and had to be taken to the hospital, can he please hurry the fuck up, thank you very much. 

“I’ll be right there,” he says, and he means it. 

The last couple of days were hard, and Gerard had been a mess. He was getting soft. But he couldn’t do that. Being soft never got him anywhere. 

He goes to the living room and finds Frank awake and dressed, looking at his phone. “Good morning,” Gerard says, his tone harsh. “Get your shoes on. You’re coming with me today.” He goes into the bathroom to splash his face and brush his teeth, and he has a mouthful of toothpaste when Frank shows up by the door. 

“I’m going with you where?” He sounds upset. Well, good. 

Gerard spits and rinses his mouth. “You think it’s not so bad, eh?” He shoves past Frank and goes for his keys. “I’ll show you.”

‡

Gerard drives as fast as he can. A text from Brian tells him Bob is in the ER with his arm torn, after he got bitten by a very angry level one. At least he got the bite as he managed to restrain the boy, and _“if it’d been you, you’d be in a body bag now,”_ Brian had said. 

The whole way, Frank just sits there, looking crossed. Maybe he’s pissed that Gerard hit him. It had been a low move, and not a very smart one, but Gerard had been livid. He also felt betrayed, in a very unexpected, idiotic way, but he wouldn’t apologize. No. Frank deserved it, and if he was upset, then _good._

When they arrive at their destination, Frank stops him before they ring the doorbell. “I don’t feel good,” he says. 

For a moment, Gerard forgets he’s mad at Frank, and notices he’s indeed pale, breaking a cold sweat. “What? What are you feeling?”

“Just,” he shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “Like I have a headache, but it’s growing teeth.”

Gerard rings the doorbell. “I suppose you should get used to it. That’s your coworker doing it.”

Frank shoots him a deathly glare, but then the door opens and they’re ushered in by an anxious woman - the kid’s mother, who tells them he’s been speaking in tongues for the past hour. She hasn’t opened the bedroom door, which is still locked under whatever Bob managed before he left. They go up the stairs and the reek of sulfur is strong, but Gerard is used to it. 

He puts a hand on the door and mutters a few words before taking hold of the knob. Frank is looking clammy by his side. “I’m going in, you can take a minute if you need.” He nods quickly and goes in. 

The boy, who is sixteen years old and built by his soccer practices in school, is standing in the corner of the room, facing the wall. When he hears Gerard, he turns slowly. He’s smirking and his eyes are pitch black. His mouth is red with blood. “Hello again, exorcist,” he greets with a metallic voice. 

“Rise and shine, fuckface.” He grabs a handful of salt from his pocket and throws it on the floor, the other hand slipping into his coat for a crucifix. “Ready for a little reading?”

The boy tilts his head, still grinning, and takes a small step forward. Gerard fights his own instincts to refrain from backing away. If he just manages to make the thing uncomfortable enough to leave for a minute, he can restrain the boy to the bed and get to the actual exorcism. “I wonder,” the boy says, “did you read to Michael?”

Gerard exhales heavily. He raises both of his hands; one yielding the crucifix, the other by its side, his fingers shaped into an L. “I sure as fuck did. _Princeps gloriosissime caelestis militiae, sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio et colluctatione, quae nobis adversus principes et potestates, adversus mundi rectores tenebrarum harum, contra spiritualia nequitiae, in caelestibus.”_

The boy starts laughing but then falls to his knees. He doesn’t stay put, though: he gets up, falls again. Gets up, falls again. In a supernatural succession of movements, the demon is clearly destroying the boy’s kneecaps, laughing as he does it. 

_Fucking level ones,_ Gerard thinks, but tries to focus and continues his prayer. He might as well be singing lullabies though, as the thing doesn’t seem bothered at all, and the boy starts shouting, “Yes, mister exorcist, give it to _meeee!”_ as he keeps his demonic choreography. Then he changes his tone, going for a gutural, disgusting voice, and repeats, time after time, “give it to me, give it to me,” until suddenly he stops. 

Gerard is out of breath from shouting the prayers, and when the boy finally stands still in front of him, he’s confused. If he’d been tamed, he’d be lying on the floor. But no; he’s standing tall, his pitch black eyes hovering somewhere behind Gerard. When he looks back, he finds that Frank is there. 

They exchange a quick glance before Gerard looks back to the boy - he knows better than to lose sight of his subjects. He’s surprised, though, when the kid bends over and kneels. The boy’s head is bowed and his voice, though still metallic, is a lot more respectful when he whispers, “Master.”

Rendered speechless, Gerard looks back to Frank, who seems just as surprised as he is. He knows he can’t be silent, though, because if there’s anyone new to this, it’s Frank. He searches his own mind frantically for something to say, anything that would keep the thing in control. 

“Don’t wet your pants yet,” he finally says, looking back to the boy. “He’s not here for you.” What?

The boy rises to his feet, holding his hands behind his back, and ignores Gerard completely. “It’s a pleasure to be in your company so soon, Master, and we are rendered at your service.”

“Render yourself into---” Gerard starts speaking, but the boy waves a hand in his direction and he’s tossed across the room, his back hitting the wall violently behind him before he falls to the floor. From the corner of his eye, he can see Frank, completely paralyzed, and the boy standing in the same place. “Rude,” Gerard huffs, picking shreds of plaster off his sleeve so he can keep himself from going into all fours and howling in pain. “You ruined my coat.”

“Get lost, exorcist,” the boy says, sparing him a glance.

“It’s a brand new fucking coat, you tool,” Gerard spits back. He tries to get up, but he might have snapped a vertebrae or something, and he tries to hide a wince. 

“Would Master command us to kill him?” The boy asks, his words spoken to Frank. 

_“No,”_ Frank says, and Gerard notices he doesn’t look scared anymore. He looks… steady. “Don’t you dare touch him.” 

“Very well, Master,” the boy says, bowing again. “What would be our next task, then?”

“Leave.” Frank steps forward, his stance menacing. “Get out of here, now. Let the boy live.”

“But Master,” the boy smiles, “Belial will not be pleased.”

“Tell Belial she’s a sycophantic cocksucking whore and she can fuck right off.” Frank’s words are fierce, but his hands are trembling slightly at his sides. 

The boy smiles again, his head tilted, and he bows one last time. “Right away, sir.”

What happens next is textbook: there’s a whiff of warm, rotten air, and the lights flicker before the boy falls to the floor, like a marionette that just had its cords snapped. Color returns to his cheeks and he lies motionless but for his chest, breathing softly. 

Frank is kneeling by Gerard in a second, his hands all over. “Oh God, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Gerard mumbles, and he can’t help but to shy away from Frank’s touch. “What the hell was that?”

Frank shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he whispers, “I don’t know. He wanted to hurt you.”

“I can handle myself, Frank. You shouldn’t have done that.” He tries to stand up, but fuck, his back hurts. Maybe he’ll end up in the hospital, too. “That was a shit move.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?!” Frank almost shouts, angry that Gerard keeps batting his hands away. 

“It worked?” Gerard gives up trying to stand, for a second, and lies back against the wall. “Telling the commander of the armies of Hell she’s a _sycophantic cocksucking whore_ worked? You really think that was a good idea?”

Frank looks at him, trying to find words. “It doesn’t--”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? You don’t know how any of this shit works!” He jabs a finger on Frank’s chest, and it hurts, but he doesn’t even care. “You think you’re hot shit because some trainee called you _Master?_ Newsflash for you, stupid, _everyone_ is their master. And you go around offending Belial, of all people! You don’t know the first thing about this business!”

“Well what was I supposed to do!” He shouts, and there are knocks on the door, but he ignores them. He’s lost in wrath, and he feels the words forming in his mouth, and he regrets them before he even speaks. “Sit on the bed and read the Bible for her, like you do?”

Gerard opens his mouth; closes it again. He huffs out a laugh, instead. “Wow.”

“I’m s--”

“No, it’s fine. You’re right. You’re hot stuff. You tell Belial to fuck off, see where that gets you.” He gathers his strength and stands up, clutching at a dresser for support. His back hurts really, really bad. Frank just sits there, hunched over and scowling. Gerard doesn’t even want to look at him. “You just dug your own fucking grave, and given who you picked to bury you, I don’t even think I want to find out how bad it’s gonna be.” 

He goes to the door, then, and unlocks it to let the family in. Gerard watches them put the boy back on the bed and gives them instructions, and soon enough the boy wakes, and everyone feels joyful and relieved to see his pale blue eyes again. Frank stands by the wall the whole time, his arms crossed, radiating an anger Gerard is sure could ruin the family’s mood soon. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he says to the mother, “could I bother you for some water?”

The woman gets her teenage daughter to lead Gerard and Frank to the kitchen, where there’s actually a whole breakfast waiting for them. The girl gets them comfortable - well, as comfortable as Gerard can be with his back, anyway - and goes back to her brother’s room. And then it’s just him and Frank, again. This time, the silence between them is thick and heavy. Gerard fills the largest cup he finds with black coffee and sips in silence, wishing he’d remembered to pack some painkillers. Maybe there’s some in his car. 

“I fucked up,” Frank finally says. He still hasn’t eaten anything. “I panicked, and I didn’t think, and I fucked up. I don’t think I’m hot shit.”

Gerard shoves a danish into his mouth and doesn’t say anything for a while, until he does. “Don’t ever hurt their pride, Frank. The workers, fine. Not the bosses.”

Frank nods. He’s fidgeting, his eyes glued to the formica. “Do you think she’ll hate me?”

“She already hates you,” Gerard shrugs. “You should be worried about retaliation. You humiliated her. If that demon does go to her, she will hear from a trainee that she’s, you know. What you said. He’ll probably laugh as he delivers, too.”

“Oh my God.” He hides his face in his hands. 

“At least he won’t be around anymore,” Gerard counters, sipping on his coffee. “She’ll end him, for sure.”

“She’s my boss, too,” Frank tells him. “Lucifer said she’ll be my boss.”

Gerard exhales sharply. “You are not going.”

“God, I am so completely, utterly fucked.”

The boy’s mother comes into the kitchen, then, and they talk for a couple of minutes. The boy seems to be fine, and Gerard gets his payment - the lady was very generous - before they leave. When he steps outside, he lights up a cigarette and limps towards his car. “Come on,” he calls on Frank, “let’s go to the hospital. We’ll check on Bob, share the pay and fetch some painkillers. My back is killing me.”

‡

  
  


Turns out Bob is really cool. He had looked scary, at first, and Frank hovered around him in silence for a couple minutes. When he first opened his mouth, though, Frank was shocked to find out he was the most soft spoken person walking the planet, bit on his lip nervously quite often and had a sweet smile. 

He sits there with Bob while Gerard is gone somewhere to find this nurse who owed him for a job. The gash on Bob’s arm is large and angry, stitched up from wrist to elbow, and Frank wonders how a human mouth managed to make such a wound. “Yeah, they do that,” Bob says, not dwelling on it, and they proceed to talk about music, tendonitis and then, strangely, planes. 

Frank has already gotten Bob’s number - and he hopes they can hang out before his doom - when Gerard gets back. His limp is almost gone, and he looks like his normal self again, but he’s frowning when he tells Frank they have to go, and fast.

It’s not until they’re in the car, leaving the parking lot that Gerard says, “It’s Tierney.”

‡

Frank climbs the stairs three at a time. His heart has been pounding on his chest since the hospital. He’s shaking so much he doesn’t even know how he manages to talk, or run, but he does it anyway. 

Apparently, Brian had gotten a call from Tierney herself. They had dated briefly, years ago, when he first went to the shop for a tattoo. Still, her voice had sounded weird, and she just told Brian to get Frank to her place, because she had something for him. 

“It’s not her, Gerard,” Brian had said. 

Frank reaches the apartment way before Gerard, who was hurt and couldn’t move fast. The door was locked, and Frank bounces against it one, two, three times, until the wood splinters and he walks in. No sign of her, and Frank rushes to where he knew it was her room, but she isn’t there, either. 

“In the kitchen, darling,” she calls, and it is her voice, but not her accent. Tierney was New York all over. This was something else. Posh and european. Like _him._

Still out of breath from all his running, Frank walks to the kitchen. Tierney is sitting on the counter, her legs crossed, a glass of wine on her hand. She is still wearing her silky little nightgown, the same she wore when Frank slept there a few weeks ago, but her posture is all wrong. She looked poised. Her lips are red and smiling. “I got your message,” she says. 

“I’m sorry,” Frank says, his voice trembling. “Don’t hurt her. Hurt me.”

She pouts and makes a childish sound. “But darling,” she whines, “hurting her _is_ hurting you.”

“Hurting me will feel better, won’t it?” He tries, still frozen by the threshold. “You can torture me, for ages. You’ll be my boss. You can do it everyday. I'll comply, or I’ll fight, whatever you want. Please.” His heart was still beating so fast his ears were ringing. “I’m sorry, Belial. Please.”

Her red lips twist into a smirk and she charmingly scratches her hair. “We’ve met so many times, Frankie boy, but you’ve never called me by my name. It is delightful to hear it.” Gerard finally appears by Frank’s side, and Belial’s smirk turns into a complete smile. “Hello, love! So kind of you to join us.”

“Hi,” Gerard says, his hand on the small of Frank’s back. “Frank didn’t mean it. He was - he didn’t know you.”

“I didn’t,” Frank agrees, “I was - I was scared, and just, I didn’t know better, and I fucked up. I’m sorry, please, don’t hurt her. Please.”

Belial laughs, her legs dangling from the counter, and it’s the worst thing, to see Tierney’s face like that. She drinks the rest of her wine and bends to the side, putting the glass into the sink, before straightening up again. Her glare is set on Frank, and her smile is gone. “See, boy. I caught wind you don’t like me very much. You said you wouldn’t work with me, did you?”

“I take that back,” Frank tries, frantically, feeling his fingers go numb. “I’m yours. I’ll do whatever you say.”

She snickers, and scratches her neck. “Of course you will, dear. But you’re right, though. You really should have known better.”

“Belial,” Gerard tries, paralyzed. “He repents.”

“Please,” Frank begs again, and kneels. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

She changes her stance, then, and no longer seems amused. “What I want, you insufferable dolt, is to kill this little twat and watch you suffer in grief for the rest of your life. You really thought you could pull this off, Frank? Have you not an iota of intelligence in that punk little head of yours, hm? You think you got the backbone to challenge _me?”_

“Belial, pl---”

“You sanctimonious fool. Your stupidity is galling, Frank, really. And I don’t give a damn if you _repent._ I’m not God,” she says in a mocking tone. “I am, literally, quite Her opposite. Just watch.”

She reaches behind her, then, and for a fraction of a second Frank doesn’t know what for, but then he remembers - he has cooked in this kitchen, and right behind where Tierney is sitting, on the wall, there’s a long magnet covered in knives. She reaches for a small one, a service knife, which Frank knows to be the sharpest of them all. 

He tries to get up, then, but finds himself completely glued to place, stuck there by Belial’s raised hand, which seems to be controlling Gerard, too. “No!” He shouts, and tries to fight her, tries to move his arms, but he’s petrified, his body completely stuck. Gerard tries to say something, too, but Frank can only manage to say no, no, no, please, no.

She smiles again. “Any last words?”

“Stop!” Frank shouts, “Belial, please, don’t!”

She licks her lips, delighted by his despair. “Too late, dear. I’ll see you at work.” She winks, brings the knife to Tierney’s throat and slices her ear to ear. 

When Tierney’s body falls to the floor with a thump and a crack, Belial is gone. Frank throws himself at her, holds her body, tries to cover her neck with his hand, to put pressure on the wound, but it’s bleeding profusely, and she’s choking, blood coming out of her mouth, of her veins, spraying on Frank’s face, and it’s her eyes again, and she looks at him in panic, teary, and he screams her name, over and over, but she never replies, and Frank’s tears fall into her face, and it’s red, it’s all red, all but her brown eyes, and she tries to tell him something, but she has a mouthful of her own blood, so she just looks at Frank and chokes and bleeds until her body goes limp, her eyes vacant, and then she’s dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I'm sorry?
> 
> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/glasssmotion) or [tumblr](https://glassmotion.tumblr.com/).


End file.
